


find a little spot in the shade

by portraitofemmy



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Bisexual Quentin Coldwater, Blow Jobs, Dancing, Eliot Waugh's Canonically Huge Dick, Fluff and Smut, Foursome - F/M/M/M, M/M, Meet-Cute, Multi, No Beast AU, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Quentin Coldwater's Canonical Oral Fixation, Recreational Drug Use, Rimming, Vaginal Sex, encanto oculto
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:27:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 29,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25963600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/portraitofemmy/pseuds/portraitofemmy
Summary: Encanto Oculto: five solid days of sex, drugs, food, and magical art. After four trips to the bacchanal, Eliot’s sure of what he’ll find there. But what he doesn’t expect is the cute boy hiding by the hotel pool reading a book. The week that follows is more than just memorable, it could very well be life-changing.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh, Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh/Multiple Characters
Comments: 84
Kudos: 288





	1. Day One

**Author's Note:**

> I've been absolutely frothingly desperate to be next to a pool, and since I can't be, you get this fic instead! I'm breaking my own rule about posting fics while I'm still writing them and therefore can't give y'all an update schedule, but please trust none of these chapters end on cliff-hangers. Honestly, I'm just here for some smutty fun, please enjoy this virtual vacation.
> 
> Content note: as you might expect from Encanto Oculto, this fic will contain drug use, group sex, and public sex. None of that happens in the first chapter, but know it's coming. 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who's listened to me ramble about this fic for the past couple weeks, and to [propinquitous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/propinquitous/pseuds/propinquitous) for the beta work.

Of all the places on Earth you expect to find someone sitting in the shade, reading a book, Encanto Oculto has to be one of the last. Maybe just shy of ‘a mausoleum’ and just above ‘an abandoned parking lot’ in terms of likeliness, honestly. It catches Eliot’s attention, at least, as he casually makes his way across the pool deck of the hotel, feeling loose and relaxed already. He’s several orgasms into dearly needed sex vacation, and there’s a cute boy huddled up by the bar, and that’s all Eliot needs in order to redirect his steps away from the path up to the lobby. Well, Eliot’s assuming he’s cute. He has cute energy, at the very least.

Also, highly spookable energy, all twitchy fingertips against the top of his paperback, eyes constantly darting around to every sound. Not the direct approach then, no.

No, best to order a drink, instead. Eliot can lean casually against the bar, let his open linen shirt catch the breeze, and order a drink complicated enough to ensure the bartender will put it at the end of his to-make queue. Subtle, with the added bonus that, at the end of it, Eliot will have a drink. He can feel eyes on him, but by the time he glances back at the man tucked in at the end of the bar, he’s turned his attention back to the book.

“What are you reading?” Eliot asks casually, incidentally, like this is a totally normal thing for someone to be doing at a bacchanal. It’s, admittedly, not the most _inventive_ opening line, but the little nerd jumps anyway. Not a kind of jump like he’s been startled out of a trance, though, more like he’s caught off-guard that someone noticed he’s occupying physical space. He looks up, and— _oh_ , he is cute, he’s extremely cute, ski-slope nose and heavy brows, soft pink bow of a mouth open just slightly in startled surprise. 

“Oh, um. _Discworld_?” Cute nerd holds up the paperback so Eliot can see the cover, like it’s possibly going to mean anything to him at all. The cover depicts a giant turtle, with several elephants balanced on top of it, and then a flat disc of a topographical map on top of those, which is like— vaguely horrifying, to someone who’s been bitten by snapping turtles more than once in their agrarian youth. 

“Never heard of it,” Eliot says cheerfully. The man opens his mouth like he’s going to explain the plot to Eliot, which honestly he might be, he seems the type. Eliot probably wouldn’t hate that— listening to people talk about their passions is unironically one of his favorite things to do, but it might do them both a favor if he can head it off before the guy talks himself in a circle. Extending a hand forward, he says “I’m Eliot.”

Cutie blinks for a second, then fumbles to transfer the book to his other hand so they can shake. Adorable. “Hi, I’m— Quentin. I’m Quentin.”

“That sure is a name,” Eliot says, lightly incredulous but not enough to be rude. He doesn’t seem offended or put off, anyway, which is always encouraging when Eliot’s coming on strong.

“Only one I’ve ever had,” Quentin agrees, giving a sheepish little smile and folding the paper back shut. “My friends call me Q, though.”

“Well, I’d be an idiot to turn down friendship if it’s offered.”

“You don’t strike me as an idiot.”

“You’re right, Q, I’m not,” Eliot agrees, smiling a little in acknowledgement as the bartender sets his drink down on the bar in all its boozy, frozen glory. Quentin quirks a smile down at the book in his hands, and _oh_ – _dimples._ There’s a light pink tinge across his nose, and it’s either a blush or a sunburn, but either way Eliot wants to brush his thumb against it. “So, I’ve gotta ask— why are you just hanging out by yourself at the bar? You’re at the most exclusive party in the magical world, why are you all alone? Just easing yourself in?”

“Oh, um—” Quentin frowns, eyes flicking down in succession to Eliot’s mouth, throat, chest, and hands, before finally skittering away across the bartop. “I’m not technically alone, I guess? My— Alice, I came with her. She was the one with the invite.”

“Girlfriend?”

“More like a friend,” Quentin rushes to explain, which is— interesting. “Who I... hook up with sometimes? I guess?”

“That’s not something people are usually unsure about,” Eliot teases, leaning his elbow on the bar. “So where is she?”

“She’s in the room.” There’s an awkward little downturn to Quentin’s mouth. “She doesn’t really want to be here, but I figured— Like, no harm in reading by the pool, right?”

“None at all,” Eliot agrees. The frown melts off Quentin's mouth, replaced by a hesitant little smile that curls just at the corners, soft and sweet. Eliot’s heart does a weird thumping thing it’s definitely not supposed to be doing during a week long orgy. He can feel himself smiling back, nowhere near as cool and disaffected as he’d like to be. Well, might as well lean into it. “What about swimming, would there be any harm in that?”

He runs his eyes over Quentin under the guise of checking to see if he’s wearing a swimsuit. He is, basic black board shorts pulled up to above his knee while sitting, which probably means they’ll be disappointingly long the rest of the time. They are, at least, mercifully free of bright blue flames or graphic sharks— but naturally, that would draw too much attention. Quentin, in his light grey t-shirt and black boardshorts, seems entirely constructed to deflect attention. Which is a shame, really, Eliot finds him very attention-worthy. His calves are surprisingly hairy and defined, like he’s done significantly more willing running than Eliot ever has. Even his feet, with nondescript canvas-thonged flip-flops, seemed sturdy, solid, square. A delight of contradictions. 

“Oh, um— but you just got a drink?” Quentin points out, a half-assed protest at the very best.

Eliot laughs, which makes a bewildered smile spread across Quentin’s face. “You’re cute. I can definitely handle putting my drink on the edge of the pool.”

“Oh, yeah, that— makes sense.” Quentin’s eyes dart around, awkward restlessness pouring off him. Eliot shakes his head. Too cute. Quentin’s wrist is solid and furry, too, when Eliot wraps his hand around it, pulling him out of his chair. 

“Come on. Let’s get you some sun.”

The pool is pretty deserted this early on in the festival. In Eliot’s experience, it tends to get crowded around day three, when people need a break from the constant magic, mind-altering substances and public nudity. For now, it’s mostly those who are starting slowly, or waiting to meet someone who hadn’t made it for the opening this morning. Eliot had only been heading back this way to begin with in order to grab a robe from his suitcase— his fitted swimsuit and shirt _looked_ good, but it was less than ideal for moving quickly between zones. 

There is something nice about shedding his shirt and sliding into the cool, chlorinated water, though. A different kind of relaxation than he’s used to indulging in, sure, but nice nonetheless. Quentin even manages not to be too shy taking his shirt off, which is kind of a pleasant surprise— Eliot half expected him to just get in the pool with it on. But he doesn’t, just dumps it and the book in one of the lounge chairs by the pool and then takes a _running leap_ , jumping in the deep end of the pool with a splash.

He’s far enough away, over at the side, that Eliot only catches a little of it, enough to wet his face and weight down his curls. Still, Quentin pops up from the water with a full shit-eating grin on his face, hand coming up to smooth his wet hair back, and _yeah_ , okay— Eliot can do this. 

“If you got chlorine in my drink, I’m going to rescind my offer for friendship,” he threatens with a mock glare, which only prompts Quentin to splash him again, intentionally, palm through the water. “Oh it’s _on_.”

Splashing through the water like kids, they climb all over each trying to dunk the other under the water. Eliot has six inches of height on Quentin and he wields them mercilessly, but Quentin is a squirmy and nimble little thing. He has absolutely no shame about using Eliot’s momentum against him, either, and is much better at three-dimensional thinking, ducking down into the water rather than moving one way or the other. It’s a pretty effective way to get _all of their skin_ pressed up against each other. Not Eliot’s usual approach to be sure, but effective. By the time they’re panting and out of breath, Quentin’s relaxed and open, listing easily into Eliot’s side. His smile is just— radiant, god he’s beautiful, Eliot already wants to kiss him so badly. 

“Yeah, this isn’t so bad,” Quentin says casually, like he’s continuing on a conversation, treading water easily. Eliot’s toes are brushing the bottom of the pool, but he’s gone back to mostly holding on to the side, near his perfectly unchlorinated drink. They end up talking for a little while, lazy in the cool water. Quentin, it turns out, is a Brakebills student. 

“You must be a first year, then,” Eliot fills in, grinning a little when Quentin’s eyebrows go up. 

“Am I that green?”

“No, not at all,” Eliot lies, even though he kind of is. “I just graduated last May, and I’m _sure_ I’d remember you, if we’d been on campus at the same time. What’s your discipline?”

A shadow passes over Quentin’s face. “Undetermined,” he says, sour note to his voice. Then he shrugs, shaking it off. “I’m living in the Physical Kids’ Cottage right now, though, they had extra space.”

Eliot feels a pang of homesickness that he’s been ignoring for the better part of a year. He tries not to think of the Cottage too often, because being hung up on your university is _gauche_ , and Eliot’s not about that. “Ah, my old stomping ground. Have they completely destroyed my bar yet?”

Quentin blinks. “Wait— Are you Eliot _Waugh_?”

Well, that’s unexpected. “I take it my reputation precedes me?”

“Only just like— you threw good parties. Everyone’s always comparing everything to your parties.”

Of all the things that he could have left as a legacy, that’s probably one of the better ones. “As they should,” Eliot agrees primmly, reaching out of the water for his drink. It’s still wonderfully frozen, spelled to say cold, thank god for magic honestly. 

“So what— do you _do_ , after you graduate?” Quentin asks, head tilted curiously. “I talked to some people at alumni day, but like— I really don’t get how you can go become a podiatrist when you know magic exists.”

“I’m apprenticing with a group that does magical events,” Eliot says, with a half-hearted shrug. God knows work is the last thing he wants to be thinking about right now. “I can tell you about a lot of the tips and tricks that keep this place running, if you want the literal magic spoiled for you.”

“Really?” Quentin asks, perking up, actually _lighting_ up, like seeing under the engine wouldn’t spoil the fun for him at all. Like it might be part of the fun. “I can’t imagine _anything_ spoiling magic for me.”

It’s so fucking earnest. He’s so fucking _earnest_ , this boy who brought his sci-fi/fantasy novel down to the pool with him during a week-long orgy. Eliot’s heart does the weird squeezy thing again, followed by a little protective urge. It’d be nice, wouldn’t it, if Quentin could avoid all the things that will spoil magic for him. 

“Hi there.”

And like that, the spell is broken. The bubble burst, they are no longer the only two people in the world. A small group had paddled up to them, three girls and a guy, all beautiful and glistening in the sunlight. “Hello,” Eliot says pleasantly to the woman who’d spoken, who is just— aesthetically— breath-takingly gorgeous; long braids, and dark skin contrasting with a bright yellow bikini. “Enjoying the festival?”

“It’s a dream and more,” she answers back, smiling warmly over at him, and then Quentin in turn. Quentin, who looks a little bit like he got smacked in the head by a two-by-four. “We’re heading down to the lagoon, and were looking for some more men to join us, if you’re interested.”

The offer seems a little, well— standardly heteorsexual for Eliot’s taste, when there’s a bounty of available men on offer; queer men, men who might not normally be interested but leave their preconceptions at the door. Which is not to say Eliot’s never fucked a woman at Encanto, but— rarely on day one. He’s got other itches to satisfy. Still, Quentin came with a woman, and just because he’s been open to Eliot’s companionship this far doesn’t mean he might not prefer some other options. 

Except Quentin, when Eliot looks over at him, is visibly turtling in on himself, sunk almost up to his nose in the pool. As much as he’s come out of his shell, he looks like he’s longing to be back at the bar with his book and shirt on, hiding in the shadows. 

“Thank you, but I think we’ll pass. He’s a virgin,” Eliot explains, sotto voce, biting back a giggle when Quentin splutters and squawks.

“I am not!” Quentin shoves out at him, but really it’s more splashing than any serious attempt to dunk Eliot. 

“A virgin to the bacchanal,” Eliot protests, laughing, getting a hold of Quentin’s wrists easily. He stops struggling immediately, which is— interesting. But Eliot lets him go, turning back to the woman who’s smiling at them, easy and unhurt. “The lagoon might be a little much for day one.”

“Of course,” she agrees, tipping her head in easy acceptance. “Enjoy the festival.”

Quentin watches her go still submerged in water, like he’s afraid she might see his tits. Which is, honestly, kind of cute. That kind of shyness isn’t exactly common at a place where people come planning to be naked most of the time. Eliot’s self-aware enough to know that shyness appeals to him, that the allure of coaxing someone into a new experience has informed some very specific tastes when it comes to men, but— Quentin already seems less shy around Eliot, bobbing up out of the water so his wet hair sticks to his shoulders. 

“I can’t believe she just _asked_ ,” he mutters, a little stunned, but he doesn’t sound judgemental about it, at least. “I’ve never just been— _asked_ for sex before.”

“That’s the beauty of this place,” Eliot sighs, sinking back to float in the water. “You never have to be worried about asking, because if someone says no, there’s always other options. You never have to feel bad about saying no, either. You’re not letting anyone down, and there will be other offers, other opportunities.”

And it’s maybe, possibly, a little pointed, but Eliot can’t help the feeling of glowing excitement that Quentin _hasn’t_ said no to him so far.

It’s late afternoon by the time Eliot’s ready to be done with the pool, starting to get a bit prunier than he’d really like to be. A little past that threshold, honestly, but somehow he’s gotten caught up in the conversation. Quentin’s interesting to talk to, about school and his interest in magic, and yeah, okay, he’s as cute as Eliot suspected when he starts rambling about books. But he’s a good listener, too, and a seemingly endless well of curiosity. 

Still, you can only spend so much time in chlorine, and by the time they hit a natural lull in conversation Eliot’s definitely hit that point. It feels like a crossroads moment, where Eliot could bid him a fond farewell and finish his trip up to the room to get his robe, then find some other beautiful boy to suck his dick, or— He can take a chance.

“Any other parts of the festival you’re interested in checking out?” Eliot asks, bracing his arms on the edge of the pool so he can push himself out. If it happens to draw Quentin’s eyes to his chest and arms and abs, well— oops.

“Oh, um—” Quentin stutters a little, scrambling to follow Eliot’s lead out of the pool. “I’m not sure I’d really even know— like, what to do or— whatever.”

“Well, you could come down to the zone one beach with me for dinner,” Eliot coaxes, gently, though Quentin’s reluctants seems to be almost for show. His curiosity is bubbling visibly beneath the surface.

“Zone one is just— like, you can— you don’t have to be— naked?”

“In fact, you should not be,” Eliot agrees, just utterly charmed by this awkward, stuttering boy. “Zone one is all about the food and magical art. Some people come for that alone, honestly, the food is amazing and the art is like nothing you’ve ever seen before.”

“Really?” And, ah yes, there’s that curiosity, finally breaking the surface again. “Yeah, I mean— if you don’t mind me hanging along—”

“Quentin, no one who asks for your company this week is trying to trick you, or doing it just to be nice,” Eliot says kindly, holding out his hand in offer. “I want to spend more time with you, so I’m asking.” 

Quentin takes it, and Eliot half expects him to let go once Eliot’s pulled him to his feet, but he doesn’t— just leaves his hand tucked warmly into Eliot’s as they cross the pool area, heading down to the beach. 

The art piece from the opening is still the main piece on display for the moment. Eliot knows it’ll change, probably sometime in early morning, a little show for the people who’re rising early or who haven’t slept yet. But that’s okay, Quentin didn’t see the opening, and Eliot’s happy to explain it to him, with the way the casters had woven liquid magic together into this towering sculptural form. All around them there’s cooperative casting going on, people coming together to create magic and art and pleasure and joy together, and Quentin seems captivated by all of it. 

“I didn’t know magic could be like this,” Quentin whispers in awe as they watch artists bending light into a rainbow of prismatic shapes which wove together like a dance. He’s still clinging to Eliot’s hand, like holding on is the only thing keeping him moored to the earth. “It’s been all little things and math and being electrocuted until you can control a bug.”

Jesus. “Mayakovsky?” Eliot hazards, and Quentin nods mutely. “Yeah, saying ‘he’s a cock’ is pretty unfair to cocks, if you ask me. Who in your year got locked out in the snow?”

“Me,” Quentin says startled, then frowning at the beach. “And Alice.”

“Ah.” That explained some things, then. “Well, fuck that guy. The first year curriculum is pretty focused on the minutiae of making sure you don’t accidentally kill yourself or anyone else— or intentionally kill yourself or anyone else for that matter. And also languages. _So many languages_.”

“ _So many!_ ” Quentin agrees with a laugh, all that unhappy tension bleeding out of him. “I thought the people in undergrad who wanted me to take Latin were fucking insane. Now I wish I’d listened to them.”

They walk themselves into an appetite wandering along the beach looking at all the art being made, and by the time they make it over to the food table, Eliot’s kind of tempted to just take one of everything. But that would be an absolutely insane thing to do, because of course Encantois managing better than your standard buffet. Choice delicacy from cultures all over the world, and ostensibly some from _other worlds_ if the chef Margo hooked up with last year was to be believed, covers several gold-cloth lined tables. Spells blanket the area, allowing you to eat until you feel like stopping with no sense of discomfort, which Eliot explains to Quentin as they load up plates.

“Really? Are there any other kinds of like, active effects?” 

Eliot hums in agreement. “There’s more in the other zones. Zone three spots have a ‘daddy’s little helper’ spell, so you can be sure to rise to the occasion, regardless of when you last got off.”

“There’s a fucking Viagra spell?” Quentin whispers, startled, and Eliot laughs. 

“More like it deadens over-sensitivity? Which is I guess kind of a bummer if that’s your kink, but I think most people are happy with it.”

“Huh.” Eliot can practically hear the gears turning in his brain, like he could reverse engineer the spell just based on the effects. “Are you sure you’re not a meta-comp? You’re fascinated by this stuff.”

“Just a nerd,” Quentin says with an awkward little shrug. “I love like— I dunno, D&D and stuff. My best friend is, though, a Knowledge kid. I don’t think I am, but. You know, who knows, I’m not anything yet.”

“Well, you’re cute as hell,” Eliot says fairly, before he can even think about the words. He probably _wouldn’t_ have said them if he’d been thinking about it, but that would have been a shame, probably, because Quentin’s cheeks flush with a happy smudge of pink.

“I missed the bit where that was an option for disciplines.” 

“Charm is an Illusion discipline,” Eliot says sagely, throwing an arm over Quentin’s shoulder and steering him towards the bar. It’s absolutely delicious the way Quentin melts into his side, allowing himself to be led. “Maybe you’ll end up in the Castle. Parties will be a come-down from the Cottage, though, so prepare for that. Illusion kids are all flash and no substance.”

“Is that what you think I am?” Quentin asks guilelessly, but Eliot gets the distinct impression he’s being teased. 

“Not at all. You seem pretty substantive to me.” Quentin has no answer to that, but he’s smiling a pleased little smile, and Eliot will count that as a win. “Now come on— You’ve got to try the blueberry mule they’ve got here, I swear it tastes like pie.”

They settle on the beach not too far from the ocean, chatting their way through their platefuls of food. Everything is delicious, and Quentin’s a bright, engaging light in the landscape. Eliot leans back on his hand when they eventually lapse into silence, drink in hand, looking out over the water at the spectacular color of the sunset. It’s a cliche, really, but he hasn’t actually stopped to see the beauty of this place in years. Too many different ways to get fucked up to stop and smell the roses. Last year, one final sprint away from losing three years of familiarity and stability, he’d been just about desperate to lose himself in any way possible. Now, when he can say with some level of certainty that there _is_ in fact life after grad school, he finds he doesn’t mind as much just laying on the beach and feeling the wind in his hair. That’s its own kind of pleasure, isn’t it?

“Hey,” Quentin says, softly, soft enough that Eliot almost doesn’t hear it over the crashing of the surf. When he looks over, Quentin’s got a thoughtful look on his face, sitting close enough that his knees almost brush Eliot’s. Almost. The tease of near-contact is a delight unto itself. “Thanks for coaxing me out. Sometimes I need to be pushed a little.” 

Eliot can see that, maybe, from Quentin’s perspective. But he can also see how it would have been easy to spend the whole week up in the hotel with Mystery Alice. But instead, Quentin had chosen to be brave. “It’s been my pleasure,” he says, offering up his mule mug up to thunk against Quentin’s. It’s even true, it’s been a surprisingly fun afternoon. Sure, maybe he’s come a little less today than he’d initially planned, but— Quentin’s good company, once he’s decided to let himself be. He’d be happy to finish up their drinks and send Quentin back up towards the resort, head into zone two himself later if he’s feeling it.

Except, well, Quentin _is_ brave.

He’s brave, and seems to have made up his mind about something, so when he says Eliot’s name, it’s laced with a hint of determination. It’s almost not a surprise that Quentin kisses him, gentle and hungry and a little poorly aimed, half on his knees in the sand. It’s far briefer than Eliot would like, opening his eyes slowly to Quentin’s wry smile. He’s eyes seemed to say _well, I thought I’d ask_ , and— god, why would Eliot’s say no?

The stiff strands of Quentin’s hair still feel silky under his fingertips when Eliot reaches out to slide his palm up to cup Q’s jaw. He nuzzles into Eliot’s palm ever so slightly, sweet thing, and god— just opens right up when Eliot leans in to kiss him back. It’s better, oh, it’s _good_ , Eliot’s aim is truer than Quentin’s as he captures Quentin’s bottom lip. Licking out across it earns him a full body shiver and Quentin’s mouth falling open, inviting and warm, and– yes, _god yes_ , sweet and eager.

There’s an interesting moment of push-pull, where Quentin moves like he’s trying to lead the kiss out habit and then realizes abruptly that he doesn’t have to, and then he just _melts._ Sinks into Eliot’s hands, sweet and trusting and oh so receptive, he’s just— _delightful_ , honestly. Eager kisses and curious hands, Quentin touches Eliot’s face, then his neck, down, hands sliding down to the open front of Eliot’s shirt. The touch feels electric, sparkling and alive across the sensitive skin of Eliot’s throat. 

“ _God,_ baby,” Eliot whispers, thoughtless, as they break apart to breathe. Quentin just hums in agreement, fingers dragging down Eliot’s chest until they tangle into his chest hair. Scratching through it, Quentin kisses him again, hungry and coaxing, until Eliot’s licking back into his mouth with a satisfied groan. 

It’s possibly the most awkward position to try to make out in, though, Quentin half-up on his knees just to reach Eliot’s mouth, leaning towards each other with hands braced in the sand. It’s so much easier, really, for Eliot to cup his hands at the back of Quentin’s skull and guide him down, down until he’s laying back, until Eliot can throw a leg over him and brace himself on his forearms in the soft sand and kiss him breathless, because— _oh yes_. This is an angle Eliot knows how to make work. 

Then Quentin, in the way he’s had all day of being shy right up until he isn’t anymore, slides his hand down between Eliot’s legs without preamble. His hands are— _big_ and solid and good, and it’s all Eliot can do not to grind forward into it because, _oh fuck_ , it feels good to be touched. It feels so much better than it has any right to, the way Quentin’s big hand cups and then _rubs_ , slides all along everything going on in Eliot’s swimsuit, touching him from the root of his stiffening cock all the way back to his balls. “Oh, God,” Quentin breathes out, half a moan, squirming under Eliot’s body trapping him against the sand. “You’re– god, fuck, you’re so— _big,_ Jesus, you’re not even hard yet.”

“Getting there,” Eliot laughs, dragging in a stabilizing breath, which does fuck all because Quentin keeps squeezing at him, fascinated. He looks down, expecting to see reluctance or embarrassment or frustration, one of the many things he’s been met with because— listen, having a huge cock sounds great in theory, but it’s literally sent people running before. Not in a while, but— it’s happened. He’s gotten more than one _no fucking way_ in his life, and virgin-maybe-straight-boys tend to be the ones who bolt. But Quentin— Quentin's eyes have _blown_ black, his soft wet mouth open drawing in gasps of air, and he’s looking at Eliot like he’s the very last available copy of some first-print comic book. Rare. Precious. Coveted. 

“Stop,” Eliot gasps, and it’s _killing_ him to say it, because god knows it’s not that he doesn’t want this. Saints alive, he wants it so much. But he also very much doesn’t want to be magically ejected from Encantofor fucking on the zone one beach, and if Quentin doesn’t stop touch his cock real soon that’s going to be an increasingly likely possibility.

Quentin’s hands fly off immediately. “Sorry, I didn’t— I thought you want—”

“I do,” Eliot rushes to reassure him, leaning down to just— fuck his tongue into Quentin’s mouth until Q’s hips push up against him. Which, yeah, okay, that’s probably something of a mixed message. “I so do, Q, believe me. But we either need to take this to a tent or the hotel or we’ll get kicked out for violating the rules of consent here.”

“I— uh?”

“That’s why the zones exist,” Eliot explains, gathering as much willpower as he’s ever managed in his life and rolling off Quentin and onto his back in the sand. He’s definitely getting sand in his curls, which is not a hot look, but whatever. “So no one has to see anything they’re not actively consenting to see.”

“Oh. That makes sense I guess,” Quentin breathes out. He’s biting his lip when Eliot rolls his head over to look at him, and fuck. _Fuck_. It’s a highly biteable lip. Eliot wants to bite it some more.

“I really want to touch you so badly,” Eliot says, just in case there was any doubt. A pleased flush spreads across Quentin’s face, happy and hopeful, so maybe it does bear saying. Rolling over onto his side, Eliot props his head up with one hand, and drops the other onto Quentin’s belly, warm through the thin fabric of his t-shirt. Quentin’s breath hitches, and Eliot can feel it in his diaphragm, how affected Quentin is by him. It’s nice. “There’s so many things I want to do to you, actually, but we can’t do them here.”

“Tents or hotel,” Quentin repeats, like he’s gotta show off he was paying attention in class. Adorable. “Tents are— through the other zones, right?”

“Yeah,” Eliot agrees, leaning in to kiss softly up Quentin’s jaw so he can speak in his ear. “There’s privacy there, if you want it, but— you’ll have to be naked to get to them. Or I can take you back to my suite. I’ve got a big empty bed no one’s sleeping in.” He can say that with some confidence. Margo’s never, in three years, spent a night in the hotel room. Neither has Eliot, come to that. 

“That sounds nice,” Quentin admits, mouth quirking a little. “Sorry if that makes me lame.”

“Not even a little,” Eliot promises, though some people here might disagree. How lucky for Quentin that Eliot found him first. 

The walk back up to the hotel is long enough that they’ve cooled off a little bit by the time they hit the lobby. Quentin’s all nervous energy again, fidgeting with Eliot’s fingers where their hands are laced together. He keeps shooting over these little covert glances, like he’s half expecting Eliot to disappear before they make it to the elevator. It’s weirdly sweet, but Eliot has no plans of going anywhere. There’s a whole elevator ride to get through, tension crackling between them with electricity, and the next time Quentin looks over at him, Eliot can’t bring himself to pretend he doesn’t see. No, instead he crowds into Quentin’s space, just enough so that Quentin has to tilt his head back to look at him, painfully precious with his cute little nose and soft pink mouth.

Eliot just smiles, ducking his head enough to tease his nose along the edge of Quentin’s jaw, up until he can flick his tongue out at the shell of Quentin’s ear. The reaction is immediate, Quentin jolting on a startled gasp as his free hand flies out to clutch at Eliot’s forearm. Humming a low sound of pleasure, Eliot chases the thread, nibbling a little before taking the lobe between his lips and sucking. Quentin’s knees buckle slightly, and he gasp out a softly befuddled, “What the fuck?” Excitement sparkles low in Eliot’s belly, because god— he can’t wait to get this boy bare, to put his mouth _everywhere_ and find all the places Quentin doesn’t know he likes to be touched. 

The elevator stops with a soft _ding_. Quentin’s still looking a little weak-kneed, but he follows Eliot out into the hallway with no hesitation, fingers still linked together. 

There’s a moment of fumbling awkwardness as Eliot gets the door unlocked, Quentin a vibrating ball of tension at his side. Then it’s open, and they’re in, and Eliot has just enough time to verify that, yes, the room is empty, before Quentin’s backing Eliot up against the door and fucking _climbing up him_ to kiss hungrily at his mouth. Quentin’s up on his toes, arms thrown up over Eliot’s neck, and god— _god_ , he feels small and hot and eager when Eliot gets his hands on him, cups those cute little hips in his palms and _pulls_ until Quentin’s basically straddling his thigh, straining up into his mouth. 

It’s almost a surprise when Quentin reaches for one of his hands, pulling it up to the back of his own neck, like Eliot had been holding him on the beach. Laughing a little, Eliot complies, lets Quentin show him how he likes to be kissed— and he likes to _be kissed_ , apparently, yields easily the minute Eliot gets with the program enough to push a little, given over to these delightful little full-body shivers with every pass of Eliot’s tongue over his lips. God, Eliot wants to take him apart, peel him out of his clothes slowly and work him over until he can’t hold it together anymore. What a beautiful way to spend a night...

Except Quentin seems to have other ideas. Every thought he had about making it long and lasting and _good for Quentin_ evaporates out of his brain as Quentin’s knees hit the floor. 

“Oh, _fuck_ , Q. Have you done this before?” Eliot asks, gasping, as Quentin starts tugging his swimsuit down. The tight little shorts were not designed to accommodate an erection of any type, even a semi of Eliot’s, and there’s a moment of relief at just being free of the trappings. But then Eliot blinks and he’s aware of his surroundings again, of Quentin’s curious determination as he squares off with Eliot’s dick. More than half hard now, it’s standing proudly away from Eliot’s body, dark flushed pink just peaking out of the foreskin and Quentin— fucking _licks his lips_. 

“I like giving head,” he says, and yeah, okay, Eliot believes that. He’s known Quentin for about 10 hours and he can already tell that Quentin approaches life mouth-first. But—

“Have you sucked a dick before, sweet boy?” He follows the question with fingers carding gently through Quentin’s hair, pushing it back off his forehead and back behind his hair.

“No,” Quentin admits with a stubborn frown, his heavy brows drawing into a line above his nose. Eliot brushes it with his thumb, smiling helplessly as Quentin relaxes. “But I think about it a lot.”

“Oh yeah?” Eliot murmurs back, delighted, still touching him, he can’t stop touching him, god. He drags his fingertips down to Quentin’s kiss-bitten lips, brushing over them until Quentin’s tongue darts out again, warm and wet and sending a thrill of heat down to Eliot’s cock. It twitches eagerly, like it’s just— reaching out for Quentin on its own, aching to be inside. “What do you think about?”

Quentin swallows visibly, hand coming up to circle the base of Eliot’s cock. He gives it a long, exploratory pull that Eliot feels all the way down to his toes, eyes fluttering closed for the space of a heartbeat before he forces them open again. This is not an experience he wants to miss out on seeing. “The taste,” Quentin says, forcing Eliot’s brain back on track, right, to this whole erotic teasing he’d been doing. “The stretch of it. The way it would feel to— let someone just hold my hair and— take.”

Dear god in heaven. Eliot groans, sliding his hand back into Quentin’s hair to make a loose fist, watching the way Quentin reacts to it, mouth falling open with a small gasp. He’s blushing, again, pretty pink across his cheeks. “Baby,” Eliot murmurs thoughtlessly, running his mouth off as he tugs lightly at Quentin’s hair just to watch him squirm. “You’re gonna be so good at it, I can already tell.”

Q’s hand is working a faltering rhythm, like an afterthought, he’s not paying enough attention to it for it to be a particularly good handjob, especially dry as it is. But his eyes are blown black with desire when he looks up at Eliot, and then ever so slightly licks is lips again. “Will you show me how?”

“Fuck yeah,” Eliot hisses, reaching down to knock Quentin’s hand off his dick so he can take it himself. Quentin eye’s tracks the movement with open fascination, like he’s never seen anything more appealing than Eliot wielding his cock. It’s a heady feeling, to be wanted so openly, it’s what Eliot comes to Encanto for. He wouldn’t have expected to find it like this, maybe, but— that speaks to Eliot’s lack of imagination more than anything else. 

How could he have possibly imagined this, the way Quentin leans forward, open and eager, to let Eliot feed him his cock?

It’s only the fact that he’s come already several times today that keeps it from being over embarrassingly fast. True, Quentin doesn’t really know what he’s doing, but he’s fucking eager and sloppy as hell and willing to take guidance, and that’s pretty much all Eliot can ask for in a blowjob, if he’s being honest. Q’s smart enough not to just impale himself on dick, doesn’t push to the point of gagging, which is good, because having a boy gagging on your cock sounds a lot better in theory than it actually is, in Eliot’s experience. But this, the way _everything_ is getting wet, Quentin’s face and Eliot’s dick and Quentin’s hand where it’s working what he can’t fit in his mouth and Eliot’s groin and balls, and— it’s so _messy_ , he loves it, fuck it’s _so good_.

“Lick my balls, baby,” he coaxes, tugging at Quentin’s hair until he pulls off to do so, resuming his half-attentive handjob in order to duck down and put his mouth on the tender, sensitive skin of Eliot’s sac, sucking one at time until Eliot groans, rolling his hips forward to fuck into the channel of Quentin’s fist. “God, that’s so good.”

“You’re—” Quentin starts, strangled, sitting back up, “— _so fucking hot_ , Eliot, Jesus.” 

And, god knows Eliot’s not immune to a little ego stroking, fucking hell. Then Quentin reaches his left hand down to cup between his own legs, grinding up into his own hand in helpless little jerks, and Eliot quickly loses the thread of patience he had to drag this out. As hot as the idea of Quentin coming in his board shorts sucking Eliot’s dick is, he’s got better uses for orgasms than that. He grabs at Quentin’s hair, probably more roughly than is exactly polite, but Quentin just moans with it, diving back in to suckle at the head. 

“I’m gonna come,” Eliot warns, fisting, tugging at Quentin’s hair, soft and long and utterly grabbable. “Where do you want it, baby?”

“In my mouth, in my mouth,” Quentin babbles back, barely pulling off long enough to get the words out. And that’s _it_ , Eliot’s _gone_ , pleasure bursting within him like a firework, bright and sweet and good down between his legs as he spills onto Quentin’s tongue.

“Oh _fuck_ ,” Eliot breathes out on a laugh, helpless and delighted, slumping back against the door as his pulse slams loudly in his ears. “Holy fuck, baby.”

Quentin hums happily, and when Eliot looks down at him, he’s wiping the back of his hand across the mess on his mouth. Eliot missed him swallowing, but— Just as well, probably. Better he doesn’t _actually_ shoot his brain out his dick. His hand is still tangled in Quentin’s hair, fingers gone slack, so it’s easy to shift into a half-numb stroke, petting the loose strands back off Quentin’s face, which goes kind of tender and open when Quentin looks up at him. He offers a soft little smile, and then leans in again to press a soft, sucking little kiss to Eliot’s stomach under his navel. It’s so weirdly sweet that Eliot’s heart clenches. 

On wobbly knees, Eliot gets Q up off the ground and over towards the giant pond of a bed, just so he doesn’t end up on his ass in front of the door. Quentin declines the offer of water, electing instead to sprawl out wantonly on the sheets and pull Eliot down between his thighs and like— Eliot respects a man who knows what he wants, and Quentin certainly seems to know what he wants. Namely Eliot on top of him, kissing him and pinning him to the bed, which, yeah, okay. Yeah, Eliot can do that. The hotel rooms must have the same spells as the zone three areas, because he’s already getting hard again, stiffing up against the tender inside of Quentin’s thigh.

“God,” Quentin groans, mouth coming away from Eliot’s with a hot slick sound that makes excited heat curl in Eliot’s belly. “If I don’t get my pants off I might actually die.”

“Can’t have that,” Eliot agrees mindlessly, but that means he has to stop kissing Quentin’s neck, which would just honestly be a tragedy. Quentin’s hand comes to push somewhat insistently at his shoulder, and Eliot groans, shuffling back until he can kneel up and free Quentin’s hips. He shrugs his own shirt off, watching with great interest as Quentin wiggles his way out of his swim trunks, cock bouncing free against his stomach. He’s hard, shiny wet at the tip just from sucking Eliot and a little dry-humping, and god— he’s got a good dick, exactly the right fit for him, looks perfectly in place with his tiny little hips and strong thighs. 

He is, also, squirming a little under Eliot’s gaze. How often, Eliot wonders, does this boy fuck with the lights on? How hard is he having to fight to let Eliot look at him? 

“Gorgeous,” Eliot murmurs, running his palms up the outside of Quentin’s thighs, the texture of the hair creating static against his nerves. “You’re gorgeous, baby. How do you wanna come, huh? Let me give it to you? I’ll get you there however you want.”

“I—” Quentin starts, then stutters to a stop. Patiently, Eliot smiles at him, watching him lick his lips and swallow. “I really want you to fuck me, honestly.”

A hot little shivering of delight chases down Eliot’s spine, and he preens a little. Fucking sue him, it’s nice to be wanted. “Yeah? I can do that for you.”

Q grins, but before Eliot can lean down to kiss him he sits up, apparently to get his shirt off. Which is fair, but he gets a little stuck in it, the t-shirt catching around his head. It’s honestly endearing when it maybe shouldn’t be, leaving Eliot chuckling a little under his breath as he shuffles close enough to help Quentin get free. It’s awkward and funny, in the way sex sometimes is, people imperfectly steering bodies into intimacy. But Quentin smiles up at him once he’s free, and Eliot can’t help but smile back, can’t help but reach up and touch the corner of his mouth where his dimples crease the skin.

“I’m guessing you haven’t done this before, either,” Eliot murmurs, an odd wash of tenderness flooding him. There’s just something about this, looming over Quentin with those warm brown eyes looking up at him... He slides his fingers down to cup Quentin’s chin, thumb brushing against his lower lip. It’s like he can _watch_ Quentin’s brain stall out. Adorable.

“Not— _exactly_ , no,” Quentin says, a frown creasing his face a little. Eliot decides to take that as ‘ _I’ve fingered myself’_ which is a good starting ground, honestly. Eliot can work with that. He has to bend near in half to kiss Quentin’s forehead, the tip of his nose, the soft bow of his mouth, but it’s so worth it for the way Quentin unwinds. Eliot cups the back of Quentin’s neck, thumbs brushing the skin as he settles back on his heels.

“It’ll probably be easier for you if you’re up on your knees.” Quentin scowls at this, like the idea that he might need to do things the easy way is, somehow, blatantly offensive to his character. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s one blowjob in, but the whole thing is making Eliot feel just— unduly soft, really. “Come on, let me make it good, okay? You only get a first time once.”

“I have literally been pegged,” Quentin complains, still frowning. 

Eliot raises an eyebrow. “The girl hiding in her room at a week-long orgy pegged you?”

“No, I— have had more than one— I mean, Alice isn’t— but I had a girlfriend in college, and she liked it.”

Eliot hums to himself, sliding his hands across the span of Quentin’s shoulders and back. The frown slides off Quentin’s face until he’s ducking his head forward, mouth just sort of resting in the middle of Eliot’s chest. “Did you like it?”

“Yes.” It’s not as defiant as Eliot half expects, all of the argument draining out of Quentin as Eliot touches him. “We only got to do it a few times before— but I liked it.”

“And she used to do it on your back?” Quentin nods mutely. “Could you come like that?”

“I— wanted too.”

“I want you to come on my cock,” Eliot murmurs, and fuck doesn’t he just? His cock jerks at the thought, twitching down to bump against Quentin’s sternum. It makes Quentin snort with laughter, pulling back to eye Eliot’s cock like a mountaineer sizing up a cliff-face. 

“I don’t really think it’s gonna be a problem,” Quentin says dryly, then fucking _licks his lips_. This boy, Jesus— he was _hiding by the pool_. Eliot’s brain spins. 

“C’mon,” he says to save his dignity before he does something stupid like guide Quentin’s pretty pink mouth back on to his dick. 

Quentin lets himself be guided. He doesn’t seem to particularly like facing away from Eliot, every touch making him twist his neck around to try to see what’s going on. Eliot gives up on trying to make him settle before long and just palms his ass cheeks, squeezing and massaging the muscle under the skin. Quentin’s got a great ass; god with thighs and an ass like this, he’s gotta be a runner, no one just _looks_ like this without trying. And fuck, that furled little hole when Eliot pulls him open, parting his cheeks to get a good look— Q shivers when Eliot brushes against his rim with his thumb, shoving backwards towards Eliot’s hands while the little ring of muscle winks looser, like Quentin’s fucking inviting him inside. It makes his fucking _mouth_ _water_ , his head spin, and suddenly Eliot’s so fucking glad he got off already or he would _not_ have the patience to make this what it should be.

Patience, it seems, is not what Quentin’s looking for. “Are you always this much of a tease?” he challenges, still straining to look over his shoulder at Eliot. It startles a laugh out of Eliot, and he shakes his head.

“Just admiring the view,” he purrs, watching delighted as Quentin gets visibly flustered, ducking his head back down between his arms again.

Eliot briefly considers the prep spell, which would definitely be the fastest way to go about this, but no. No, Quentin deserves the full experience, and getting fingered by a Magician is honestly one of the simplest joys in life. Eliot aims to deliver the best, after all. So instead he settles for the lube spell, creating himself a palmful of lube that won’t dry out and get sticky halfway through. Thank god for magic honestly. Coating up three fingers, he gathers up the rest and carefully spreads it along Quentin’s hole. He jerks at the touch then lets out a long, controlled sigh escaping him as Eliot slowly, carefully fits one finger inside. 

And yeah, okay, yeah, Quentin clearly knows what he’s doing. Perhaps he’s not the world’s most experienced bottom, but he knows how to make his body work with Eliot rather than fight him, resisting the urge to clamp up and instead relaxing into the stretch. He gives a little hum of pleasure as Eliot works in his second finger, head heading down between his arms so his hair falls in curtains around his face.

“S’nice,” Q mutters, a slurred little sigh, and Eliot smiles indulgently.

“We’re just getting started, baby.”

Angling his fingers, Eliot’s next slide in passes right over Quentin’s prostate. His whole body jerks with it, a startled, needy sound, a thrum of tension visible through his shoulders as he tries to ride back on the sensation. Eliot lets him, mostly lets him chase the feeling as he works his fingers, right hand splayed out across the dimples of his lower back.

“Breathe out,” Eliot advises, and Quentin listens so beautifully, he just gives _so beautifully_ , opening up as Eliot slips a third finger inside. Q’s little answer grunt and moan is incredibly gratifying as Eliot works his fingers to the right angle to get at his prostate again. He’s not really even _trying_ to get Q off like this, but he’s really deliciously sensitive and responsive, shuddering under Eliot’s hands.

“Fuck me,” Quentin groans, riding back on Eliot’s fingers. “C’mon, god, fuck me, please, before I lose my fucking mind.”

“Yeah,” Eliot gets out, feeling wire-taught himself, cock hard and insistent between his legs. God he wants to get inside so bad, this sweet boy and his tight little body, Eliot’s _aching_ to fuck. But— he’s making it good, he’s supposed to be making it good. There’s things Quentin needs to know. “There’s spells, over the whole festival, to make it safe to do this bare. Like, non-transmission, contraception. I should have told you before you sucked my dick, actually but—”

“Oh my god, Eliot, _fuck me!”_

With that, the last of Eliot’s patience really is gone. 

Angled like this, he’s perfectly positioned to watch his cock stretch Quentin open, watch himself sink inside. It’s such a mind-fuck, it’s _so fucking hot_ , watching Quentin take him, stretch and stretch impossibly as the head of Eliot’s cock pops inside. He groans at the feeling, god, it’s so _fucking good_ , sweat prickling along his hairline and at his chest as he fights the urge to just push forward and bury his dick all the way inside.

“‘S hot,” Quentin slurs, head hanging between his arms. “I mean— your dick is hot, I can feel it, it’s different, how— _oh god_ , Eliot, I don’t even know what I’m saying.”

“That’s alright,” Eliot laughs, smoothing his palm up the line of Quentin’s spine. “You don’t have to make sense right now.”

“ _Ngh_ ,” is about all Quentin gets out in response to that, but it’s fine, Eliot’s not feeling particularly coherent himself. He’d like to think he’s evolved beyond ‘oh god, _tight_ ’ as an indicator of good sex, but— fuck, it’s so tight, and slick, and hot. Quentin’s not fighting him, actively working to relax into the stretch of Eliot’s dick, but regardless whatever store-bought-cock he’s taken before, taking Eliot is a challenge. It’s always a challenge, but Quentin’s coming at it like he’s never backed down from a dare in his life, and it’s just—

It is _so fucking hot_. 

Instinct coils in his hips, the need to just _fuck_ , work himself again and again into that hot tight channel. He fights it, petting along Quentin's sides, his heaving ribs as he gasps through it, pushing himself to relax and take it. God, Eliot wants him to take it. “That's it,” Eliot babbles, mindless, just trying to fucking hold on to his control long enough to make it good. “That's it, Q, I got you.”

“God,” Quentin groans, when Eliot's finally, _finally_ , all the way inside, hips flush to Quentin's ass. “Please, El– _please_.”

Eliot kind of loses the thread of it after that. It’s so deeply satisfying, taking Quentin by his hips and just _fucking_ , giving it to him with his whole body, tugging him back on every thrust. Eliot’s curls are melting into his face and he can’t even be fucked to do anything about it, chasing the rhythm of Quentin’s moans, the shift of his body, what makes him tense up and ride back on where Eliot’s moving inside him. He said he wanted to make Quentin come on his cock and he meant it. He has to stop and adjust his balance a little to get his hand around, wrap around Quentin’s cock. It’s worth it, though, for the way he shouts and clamps down on Eliot inside him. God, he’s _so wet_ , cock slippery with precome.

“Fuck, oh fuck, yeah, god—” Quentin babbles, fingers gone tight in the bedding. Positioned like this, Eliot doesn’t really have enough leverage to thrust, but it seems to be working just fine for Quentin, Eliot rocking into his body in time with the pulls of his hand on Quentin’s cock. He can feel the slow build of tension in Quentin’s body, the way orgasm overtakes him like a wave until he’s clamping down on Eliot’s cock and painting his hand white. God, Eliot wishes suddenly that he could see Quentin’s face when he came. His _sounds alone..._

He has at least enough presence of mind to work Quentin through it until he’s gonna all liquidy, the tension bled out of him as he collapses into a puddle on the bed, held up only by Eliot’s hands and cock inside him. Then that’s _it_ , Eliot’s _gone_ , chasing the curl of pleasure building deep inside him. God, it feels so good to fuck, to really _fuck_ with abandon, to just let himself chase it, hard and fast and deep, the wet sound of skin slapping on skin reverberating around them. Orgasm blooms and crests inside him, and he stills with a grunt, spilling deep inside Quentin’s body. It’s so fucking _good_ , he can feel it in his fingertips, shocky jolts of pleasure so good it makes his nipples tingle.

“Oh _fuck_ ,” he hisses, pulling out just to fucking— _watch_ , the red gape of Quentin’s ass and the little bit of Eliot’s come leaking out. It’s so fucking hot, he could almost come again with it, jolty aftershocks reverberating through his body.

“Uh huh,” Quentin agrees, face still mashed into the bedding. Eliot laughs helplessly, collapsing down onto the bed next to him.

“Holy shit,” he breathes out, staring up at the ceiling of the hotel. There’s a couple seconds of complete, utter silence, and then suddenly they’re both laughing, peals of giggling laughter bouncing off the walls of the hotel room.

“I don’t know what you’re ‘holy shit’-ing about,” Quentin says, through another bout of giggles. “You didn’t just get your brains fucked out.”

“I really kind of did,” Eliot protests, rolling his head to the side so he can see Quetnin’s face, his sweet smile. “No more brains here. Head empty.”

“Sure,” Quentin teases, reaching out to knock his knuckles gently against the center of Eliot’s forehead. Eliot allows this indignity to occur only because it means he can snag Quentin’s hand and bring it to his mouth, place kissing against his knuckles.

They’re getting sticky, though, and magical clean up can only do so much. “Don’t go anywhere,” Eliot instructs playfully, and then levers himself off of the bed with what little energy he’s got left.

The entire room is glowing with a magical light, and it follows Eliot into the bathroom, a cool clear light that fades into being without Eliot having to do anything other than trip the motion sensor. He cleans up perfunctorily, not even aware of the fact that he’s smiling until he catches sight of his reflection in the mirror above the sink. But he is. He is smiling, hair wet from sweat and frizzing out of control, with red marks from Quentin’s teeth all along his neck. He looks happy and well fucked, which— best case scenario for this week, pretty much. And it’s only day one. The thought sits oddly in his mind, and he waves it away, choosing instead to focus on getting a washcloth wet.

Eliot hesitates just inside the bathroom door. From here he can see Quentin, lying still kinda blissed out on the bed, face in a pillow. He’s done as Eliot said, stayed still and relaxed, the line of his spine an inviting arch in the magical light of the room. He’s gorgeous, and he's still there, and– Eliot doesn’t want him to go. It's the strangest thing, really, because Eliot’s had sex with three other people _today,_ but he wants Quentin to stay. He wants to fall asleep with Quentin in his arms and wake up with him, he wants to show Quentin more of the magic of the festival, watch him come alive with curiosity and excitement. Eliot had worried in the lead up to Encanto that he wouldn’t be able to shut off his work brain, that he’d be seeing the cogs in the machine everywhere. Now, he just wants to show them to Quentin, too.

Fuck. What’s even the point of this week if it’s not to do the things you want, whatever it is you want, without shame? The worst anyone can ever say is no.

Mind made up, he pads back out into the main room, washcloth in hand. Q’s eyes are closed, but he hums happily when Eliot starts wiping him of, wriggling a little under gentle hands. His eyes blink open when Eliot’s done cleaning him up, tossing the washcloth back towards the bathroom with a wet slap. Settling to sit with his weight on his right hand, Eliot reaches out, out with his left, catching a loose lock of hair and brushing it back. “Stay,” he implores, voice soft in the descending quiet of night. “Spend tomorrow with me. There's so much I want to show you.”

The surprise on Quentin’s face is sleep-muted, but Eliot can make it out nonetheless. Those warm brown eyes search his face, and Eliot wonders what he sees, what makes that slow smile spread across his face.

“That sounds nice,” Quentin murmurs back, sleepy soft and quiet, and Eliot's stomach does a weird swoopy thing which definitely can not be healthy. So Eliot distracts himself, leaning in to kiss Quentin’s sweet, eager mouth gently, kiss and kiss until Quentin tugs him down into bed with a laugh. They kiss until the kisses grow fuzzy, until they’re both half-asleep, nose to nose and sharing their breath. Eliot can’t remember the last time he fell asleep like this, wrapped in a warm glow of companionship, closeness that didn’t boil but simmered, bubbling under his skin like a banked fire.

He’s not sure he ever has.


	2. Day Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry it's taken so long to get out this update! You may notice the chapter count has increased. Both of these things are because chapter two got away from me so badly that it has now been split into two parts, a Day and a Night. Special thanks to **hoko_onchi** for the pinch hit beta work!

They wake in a pool of sunlight flooding in through the big bay windows. 

Eliot’s always been an early riser, life-long ingrained habit of agrarian youth difficult to shake even to this day, and on top of that they’d fallen asleep pretty early. But being awake doesn’t mean having to get up. Honestly, what are vacations for if not indulge in the fact that you _don’t_ have to drag your ass out of bed in time to shave and catch a portal to Chicago before 8am? No, Eliot lets himself come to consciousness slowly, luxuriating in the warmth of the sunlight and the simple joy of a body relaxed against his.

He can see, when he deigns to open his eyes, the sunlit profile of a still-sleeping Quentin. He’s flat on his stomach, Eliot’s arm curled easily around his hips, face tipped towards Eliot and away from the window. He is, still, somehow almost _shockingly_ cute, soft open mouth and dark eyelashes staining his cheeks. 

Sighing, Eliot nuzzles down to kiss his bare shoulder, breathing in his warm boyish smell. Beyond Quentin’s sleeping form, Eliot can see the shoreline stretching out through the window, the sparkling turquoise expanse of the Mediterranean, white sands of the beaches and the green of the vegetation. Trailing lazy fingertips across the soft skin of Quentin’s hip, Eliot contemplates the idea of swimming in the ocean today, wondering to himself if he can coax Quentin into the zone two beach, get him to splash around naked in the surf. It’s a nice thought.

Feeling like a cat given, just like— cream and catnip and extra fancy tuna fish, Eliot rolls over and pushes up to hover until he can drop a kiss between Quentin’s shoulder blades, trail his mouth up and up and up as Quentin wriggles sleepily against the bedding, shifting in a way that cannot even slightly be misconstrued as an attempt to get _away_.

“Good morning, beautiful,” Eliot murmurs, smiling at Quentin’s happy little sound. “How’d you sleep?”

“Ngh,” is Quentin’s response, his face still mashed into the pillow. He, apparently, is not a morning person, but he sighs happily when Eliot settles in next to him, practically on top of him, running a palm up and down the span of Quentin’s spine. The contented humming turns into a little groan when Eliot’s hand shifts down to just innocently palm Quentin’s ass, just a friendly little squeeze.

“Sore?” Eliot asks, watching Quentin wriggle sleepy against the sheets, not quite stretching, just feeling them on his bare skin. And oh, it is luxury incarnate, soft supple sheets and a sweet, naked boy in them. It’s decadent, indulging himself in the feeling of Quentin’s skin under his palm as he drags it up and down Q’s back in a long, sweeping arc.

“Little bit,” Quentin murmurs thoughtfully, eyes fluttering close. He’s arching under Eliot’s hand though, wriggling delightfully whenever Eliot’s palm gets down towards his ass. “It’s nice, though.”

“Yeah?” Eliot replies, not really paying attention to what he’s saying. No, he’s entirely absorbed in this; in touch, in Quentin’s skin warming up under his hands. Quentin’s got an unassuming build, but his body is solid, flexing with muscle under the skin. Eliot stretches up on his elbow to place a kiss between Quentin’s shoulder blades. Quentin hums happily, goosebumps rising on his skin as Eliot drags his nose along the line of Quentin’s spine up to kiss the base of his neck, until he’s braced over Quentin’s body. Lips dragging over his ear, Eliot whispers, “I could help with that.”

“Oh, really, you’re going to make me _less sore_?” Quentin snarks, pushing his hips back until his ass bumps into Eliot’s hips, cheeks rubbing against Eliot’s mostly soft dick.

“I could,” Eliot purrs, undeterred, still luxuriating in that bone-deep relaxation. “If you want me to, baby, I can eat your ass so good you forget you _have_ muscles.”

“Oh _fuck_ ,” Quentin groans, soft, stretching a languid shiver into soft bed. Grinning, Eliot kisses his jaw, his cheek, and then, when Quentin twists around a bit to look at him, his soft mouth. “I’m— I mean, if _you_ want—”

“Oh, I want,” Eliot promises, fervently, and at Quentin’s bewildered smile, leans in for another kiss. “Let me put my tongue in you, pretty boy.”

“See, the words you’re saying sound like you’re making fun of me, but you seem like you mean it.”

“I do mean it,” Eliot promises, leveraging himself up so he can nose in to kiss the soft hair that curls right at the edge of Quentin’s hairline. There’s a knob at the base of his neck, and Eliot’s lips find that next, kissing down the ridge of Quentin’s spine as he runs his mouth off. “I do think you’re pretty, and I want to put my tongue inside you so bad, Quentin. Lick you where you’re all tender and achy, hm? Do you like that?”

“I don’t know,” Quentin whines, squirming when Eliot’s kisses reach the middle of his back, like he’s ticklish there. Stopping his slow descent, Eliot lingers over the sensitive spot, kissing more firmly with tongue and teeth, aiming not to tickle at all. Quentin squeaks a little, and Eliot breathes out a laugh, leaving the sensitive patch of skin alone to continue on down to his original destination. “I’ve never, um—”

“Strap-on girl wasn’t into ass eating?” Eliot says innocently, having arrived finally at the adorable dimples above Quentin’s deliciously biteable ass. If only Eliot hadn’t promised to make him _less_ sore...

“I don’t think she was all that into _me_ , to be honest,” Quentin admits, a sour note to his voice which has no place in the lazy syrupy-sweet-fuck vibe Eliot’s cultivating.

“Terrible about how she had absolutely no taste, then,” Eliot says lightly, sitting back on his knees so he has both hands free to palm at Quentin’s ass. Perfect handfuls, god, just _looking_ makes Eliot dick twitch, a jolt of excitement when Eliot hooks his thumbs in and pushes Quentin’s cheeks apart. The tight furl of Quentin’s hole is pinked up, not raw-looking but blood-flushed from being fucked, fluttering a little with the cool air. Saliva floods Eliot’s tongue and he swallows, rubbing a hand over his mouth, because _fuck_. “I’m gonna use a spell okay? Just for cleaning. It might feel weird.”

“Yeah, ‘s fine,” Quentin mumbles, muffled into the pillow. He wiggles a little as the spell leaves Eliot’s fingers and takes hold in his body, but Eliot knows from personal experience that the sensation passes quickly. Quentin’s breath escapes him in a rush, the little furl of muscle clamping down against the sensation.

“It’s fine, you’re fine,” Eliot murmurs, pushing his left thumb forward until he’s petting gently against the clenching muscle, soft even strokes to give Quentin something else to focus on until the sensation of the spell passes. It pulls out a quiet little hum, Quentin tilting his hips back into Eliot’s hands, and fuck yeah— time to get this show on the road.

Settling on his stomach leaves Eliot’s legs hanging off the bed, but he can’t bring himself to care as he pushes forward to swipe his tongue in a long, welcoming hello up the crack of Quentin’s ass, taint to tailbone. From there it’s just a matter of figuring out Quentin’s body, learning the particular places and sensations he responds to as with any act of sex. It’s an art form, and Eliot’s dedicated years to learning the craft. Quentin, both subject and canvas, is beautifully generous with his pleasure, responsive and eager.

“Oh, _fuck—_ that feels—” Quentin’s sentence falls off into a pitchy moan as Eliot works the tip of his tongue in a pointed circle. He’s responding better to pressure than licking, and Eliot doubles down on it, letting his jaw fall wide so he can really work against the fluttering rim. “It’s so good, why is it _so good_ , what the fuck?”

“Relax,” Eliot chuckles, pressing a smile and then a kiss to Quentin’s spit-slick hole, licking back to put his mouth on Quentin’s balls, breath in the musky smell of him. Q’s cock is hard, trapped between the bed and his body, and it’s a gratifying assurance that he’s feeling good, as if the moans and the movements of his hips weren’t enough. Soft, needy little breaths pitch up again as Eliot moves back to work his tongue in short, sharp thrusts that just begin to breach Quentin’s body, his nose grinding into Quentin’s tailbone as he chases those sounds. It’s so _hot,_ Eliot’s hard himself just from this, from Quentin’s pleasure and the pressure of the bed against his cock.

“Can— I—” Quentin gasps, squirming against the hold of Eliot’s hands, pressing him down into the bed. “I need _more_ , please.” 

“I’ve got you,” Eliot murmurs, pulling back enough to slide his hand into the mix, working the tip of his middle finger gently into Quentin’s hole. Just gently, just a little— He’d meantt what he said about making Quentin less sore, but a single finger is just enough to give him something to clench around, to get in deeper than he can with his tongue.

Quentin keens, hips grinding back against Eliot’s face as he sets about licking around his finger, working the tender edges of the rim as he fucks gently into Quentin’s body. The hungry little pushes take on a rhythm as Quentin begins to grind his cock into the bed, working between the dual sensations of the pressure and Eliot’s ministrations on his ass. Eliot lets him ride through it, working with the rocking of Q’s body as he works his finger in deeper, until he’s into the knuckle, licking around his finger as Quentin’s sounds get more frantic, chasing the edge of pleasure. He comes with a grunt, clamping down around Eliot’s finger as his hips stutter forward into the bed, then, with a happy moan, unspooling like a puppet with his strings cut. 

Eliot briefly wishes he could see it, Quentin’s face, his spending dick, but— time enough for that later. The throb between his legs is becoming insistent, so Eliot gives Quentin’s ass a parting kiss, and climbs his way back up the bed, flopping down on his back with a happy sigh so he can get his hand down on his own dick, mostly hard and wet at the tip. Swiping his thumb against the head, Eliot lets his eyes fall closed, drawing to mind Quentin’s sounds, fuck, it had been _so hot—_

“Hey,” Quentin protests weakly, moving like his limbs are weighted down. “You didn’t come to an orgy to jerk off in the hotel. Just gimme a minute.”

“Well, it’s rude to assume,” Eliot hedges with a laugh, rolling his head over to the side until he can see Quentin, all hazy brown eyes and bed-head. “You look like you might fall back to sleep.”

“No, I’m gonna suck your dick,” Quentin informs him on a slow blink. Really he _does_ look half-asleep, and so painfully cute it makes Eliot want to reach for his cock again.

“You don’t have to.”

“I’m gonna,” Quentin instists. With visible effort, he leverages himself up onto all fours to turn perpendicular to Eliot’s body, and then— _fuck_ , lick out against the head of Eliot’s cock, tongue like hot wet velvet.

“ _Oh fuck_ ,” Eliot groans, eyes sliding shut again as he reaches down to tangle a hand in Quentin’s hair. 

It’s sloppy, messy and wet, and Eliot _loves_ it, loves the way Quentin works the head with his tongue, hand on the shaft. He doesn’t have the wherewithal to do much more than suckle at the head and jerk Eliot off into his mouth, but it’s working, it’s really working, everything slick from Quentin’s spit making the strong, long pulls of his hands curl tendrils of pleasure deep into Eliot’s body. It’s an easy, uncomplicated pleasure that pools like morning sunlight between his hips, makes his balls draw up tight and his nipples hard, makes him arch and work his hips in a lazy roll into Quentin’s strong hand and sweet mouth. 

“So good, baby.” Eliot sighs, petting his fingers through Quentin’s hair. “I’m gonna come, do you want it in your mouth?” Quentin just moans, suckling harder, so Eliot takes that as permission. He lets the feeling of it roll through him, the slow build towards a release that isn’t so much like a snap but an overflow, pleasure of orgasm spooling out through his whole body as he spills into Quentin’s eager mouth. 

Pleasant tingles sparkle along his skin as Eliot relaxes back into the bed, sprawling out a little on the soft cool sheets. Quentin drags himself up the bed, curling into Eliot’s side with a happy little sigh as Eliot’s arm curls around his shoulders. Sleep dances on the edge of Eliot’s consciousness, and he almost gives into it, but Quentin reaches out to catch his right hand, and that’s enough to jerk Eliot back to consciousness. Pulling his arm up across his body, Quentin turns his wrist so the dark lines of the tattoo on the tender inside of Eliot’s forearm are on display.

“I was looking at this,” Quentin says, lazy in the way of the post-orgasmic, as his fingers trail across the ink-stained skin. “Yesterday, I mean, when we were in the pool. Last night I wasn’t looking at much.”

“Well, certainly not my arms, anyway,” Eliot says lightly, because he’s fairly certain he remembers Quentin looking at other parts of his body a great deal. It makes Quentin duck his head to hide a smile, which is gratifying. Just– extremely cute, this boy. Who gave him permission? He’s still tracing along Eliot’s arm though, so Eliot moves it, raising it up so they can both see. Fine lines of black ink sit under the skin, the petals of an illustrative peony spilling out over a simple geometric honeycomb. The tattoo is long since healed, but Quentin’s gentle fingers still raise goosebumps across Eliot’s skin as he touches it. 

“It’s beautiful,” Quentin says softly, and for some reason, it makes Eliot’s chest feel tight.

“It’s spelled,” he explains, like Quentin was commenting on the technical work of the tattoo and not the image. “Just a little bit, not much. The woman who did it, she does magical tattoos that are _insane_ , a lot of them move—”

“Really?” Quentin cuts in, that curious sparkle back in his eyes. “That’s so cool.”

“Yeah,” Eliot agrees, because, well. It is. “Anyway, this isn’t near that elaborate an enchantment, it’s just spelled not to fade. Like, the lines won’t bleed, it’ll stay dark black, all that.”

“It’s so gorgeous,” Quentin repeats, tracing his index finger along the line of one of the hexagons. “Is it— I dunno, my best friend has a lot of tattoos and she always gets annoyed when people ask what they mean. But it seems like— magic? Like, nature and math. Like magic.”

The crazy thing is, Eliot almost wants to tell him— which is truly fucking _insane_ , he’d had to be drunk enough for his filter to stop working to tell _Margo_ why he wanted this tattoo. The peonies, the state flower of a place he’s refused to call home since he was 18, shy flowers that take years to find their roots but will bloom for decades if they can just— _fucking make it._ Honeycomb, all regimental structure yielding something soft and sweet inside. What he is, where he came from, what he hopes he can be some day. But Quentin, who _loves magic_ down to his core, sees magic in Eliot’s tattoo. Isn’t there something beautiful in that, too?

“I like that read,” he says, because at least it’s true, if not exactly honest, and doesn’t elaborate further. Quentin seems content with it, at least. Perhaps thanks are due to his nameless be-inked best friend for training him out of bad habits. He seems... imminently trainable. Eliot likes that in a boy.

Quentin hums, nuzzling back into the skin of Eliot’s shoulder. “Do they have coffee here?” he asks, lazily, like the answer to the question is less important than continuing to put his mouth against Eliot’s skin.

“Of course,” Eliot assures him, turning his head until he can nose into Quentin’s hair, kiss the top of his head. “They have all your stimulants of choice here.”

“Mmm, I’ll stick with caffeine this morning,” Quentin says dryly. “It’s a little early for cocaine.”

Eliot, who has definitely done cocaine this early in the day, though usually because he hasn’t slept yet rather than after having risen early, shrugs. “They can also make it an Irish coffee,” he offers as an afterthought. “And there’s mimosas and bellinis and bloody marys...”

“God,” Quentin groans, rolling away with a seemingly herculean effort. “Breakfast. Let’s do that.”

Yesterday Eliot had been coming back to the hotel to get a robe before being gloriously distracted, but he finishes the task today. Quentin eyes him curiously when Eliot pulls on a lightweight white sleeveless robe over a fresh swimsuit. “For switching between the zones,” Eliot explains with a shrug, honesty and maybe a little bit of a push all at once. “Even if you’re just swimming at the zone two beach, it’s a pain to have to get back into a swimsuit everytime you want a snack.” 

“Smart,” Quentin agrees, a hint of dryness to his voice. He’s got no choice but to climb back into his own clothes from the day before, but he doesn’t seem particularly bothered by that, nor should he be. Shame has no place at Encanto.

Still. “Do you want to run up and get a change of clothes?” Eliot asks as Quentin finishes shrugging into his t-shirt. 

“Nah, it’s okay. This is my only swimsuit, and somehow I forgot to pack my sexy beach robe.”

Eliot laughs, delighted. “Okay, now I just want to put you in a short little kimono. Just a little bit cheeky, if you know what I mean.”

Quentin doesn’t deign to respond to that, but the blush pinking up his nose and cheeks does the talking for him. Eliot pads over to him, until he’s close enough that he can slide his arms around Quentin and give his ass a friendly little smack. It makes Quentin jump, but he doesn’t pull away. No, he tilts his head up, embarrassment melting off in favor of something softer, face tipping up towards Eliot’s. Asking for a kiss, Eliot realizes, an ask Eliot’s more than happy to answer. It’s slow and shallow and gentle, and yet when Eliot moves away Quentin’s hands fist in the front of his robe and pull him back in for another, and another, until they’re both breathless.

“I thought you wanted breakfast,” Eliot asks, laughing against Quentin’s mouth. His lips are tingling from Quentin’s day-old stubble, sharp and prickly, deliciously masculine. God, how is he so _hot_ , this sweet little nerd?

“I do,” Quentin protests, stubborn, god he’s so _cute_. “I just— you’re a really good kisser.”

“It’s a two person dance, baby,” Eliot whispers back, planting one last smacking kiss on Quentin’s mouth. He’s deliciously pinked up around the cheeks and ears, but gamely follows Eliot’s lead in finishing getting dressed.

He takes Eliot’s hand in the elevator, starting determinedly forward when Eliot glances at him out of the corner of his eye. A silly feeling burbles in the pit of Eliot’s stomach, the kind of thing he used to fantasize about feeling in _high school_ , what it would be like to hold hands with a boy by his locker, innocent and sweet. This simple gesture that said, _I like you. I want to touch you if I can._ Wordlessly, he twists his hand so he can lace their fingers together, surreptitiously watching the dimple write itself in the corner of Quentin’s mouth.

It’s early enough that the food tables are pretty deserted, most celebrants still sleeping off the opening night’s activities. The gold-covered tables are still heavy with food offering any kind of breakfast indulgence you could crave, from delicate flakey pastries to chicken and waffles. 

“I somehow didn’t expect so many options,” Quentin admits, tucked into Eliot’s side as they browse. “Is that soup?”

“Miso soup,” Eliot confirms, glancing down to see Q’s curious expression. “Japanese thing, I guess.”

“Yeah, I mean I like it with sushi? Not sure I’m ready to have it for breakfast though.”

Quentin goes for a ham, cheese and caramelized onion crepe, which seems like the kind of thing you pick if you want to push your comfort zones while keeping some known elements. For some reason it makes Eliot smile with a kind of sweet-simmering pride, something tiny and private he wants to keep to himself. 

“Coffee?” Eliot asks, pointing towards the edge of the bar where a chemex of dark liquid sits, spelled to stay hot.

“God, yes,” Quentin agrees, swinging over towards it immediately. Eliot watches curiously, the simple intimacy of knowing how someone takes their coffee calling to him. For Quentin, it seems like black with a little sugar is the way to go, though he does ask the bartender for a splash of whiskey as well. Eliot, for his part, opts for rum horchata, savoring the sweet coolness of it as on his tongue as they find somewhere to sit among the beach chairs set near the treeline.

“What’d you get?” Quentin asks through a mouthful of food. God he’s such a _boy_ , it’s making Eliot all twitterpated. 

“ _Chilaquiles_ ,” Eliot explains, tilting his plate towards Quentin so he can see the tortilla smothered in salsa roja, the shiny yellow yolk of a perfectly fried egg, the crumbles of queso fresco. “Wanna try?”

“Sure,” Quentin agrees gamely, which bodes well for the other things Eliot aims to gently nudge him into trying today. He hums happily when Eliot passes him off a bite from the fork, enjoying the delightful visual of Quentin’s pretty open mouth. He starts talking before he’s swallowed, the heathen, but it’s _so cute._ “Oh, it’s soft! I wasn’t expecting that.”

“Yeah,” Eliot laughs, taking a bite himself. The taste always brings back memories, and he finds himself inclined to share. “I worked as a bartender a couple years ago at this fancy Mexican place. At the end of the night the chef would throw the day’s leftover tortilla chips in with the mole sauce and make a big family meal of this stuff. I never got sick of it.”

“You were a bartender?” Quentin doesn’t sound as surprised as people usually do, but then again, Eliot hasn’t really had the opportunity to show any of his affectations, has he? It’s a scary thought, but not an unappealing one. “Was that before Brakebills?”

“Yep, in undergrad.”

“What’d you study?”

“Theater,” Eliot explains, dragging a couple extra syllables out of the word. _Thea-ate-or._ “At SUNY Purchase. You?”

“Philosophy,” Quentin says with a wry little twist to his mouth. “At Columbia.”

“Wow. So career academic, huh?” Eliot asks, teasing. Quentin rolls his eyes. 

“I mean, pretty much, I dunno. Now there’s like— magic and shit, so who knows.”

“Podiatry is waiting for you,” Eliot agrees seriously, but he can’t hold it when Quentin smacks his thigh, dissolving into giggles. 

By the time they’re finished with their meal, celebrants have begun to wander out onto the zone one beach in search of sustenance. The energy of the gathering crowd is invigorating, electric and alive, and made all the better by Quentin’s weight tucked in against Eliot’s side. Smiling a little to himself, Eliot rubs his palm across Quentin’s back, arm wrapping around his shoulders. “Hey, check that out,” Eliot whispers, nudging Quentin’s gaze over to the edge of the water, where three hydromancers are moving in time, shifting through pose after pose, drawing up sparkling ribbons of water to refract the sunlight.

“Holy shit,” Quentin breathes. “They look like water benders.” 

“Yeah, sure,” Eliot agrees easily, without a single idea of what Quentin’s referring to, happy to simply watch Quentin experience the magic unfolding around them. 

“Can you do that?” Quentin asks, shooting Eliot a speculative look.

“I could probably learn,” Eliot muses, watching the dancers shift through another pose. “It seems like physical magic, so it'd probably be easier for me than trying to read your mind.”

“Do you need magic to read my mind?” Quentin asks, voice pitched low, eyes bright when Eliot looks down at him. Humming, Eliot ducks down to kiss him, slow and languid, licking the taste of coffee and whiskey off his lips. 

“Hmm, I think I can get the idea without magic,” Eliot muses, watching fondly as Quentin ducks his head, then looks back out at the performance. “You know, my best friend, Margo, she’d be good at this. Ice is more her thing, but she’s pretty good with water too. She’s probably around here somewhere.”

“I can not _imagine_ coming here with my best friend,” Quentin says flatly, staring around at the thickening crowd. “I mean, I _can_ , but— it seems like a terrible idea. I’d probably end up feeling like I’m back in high school again, watching her make out with other guys.”

Eliot raises an eyebrow, amused. “Maybe she’d be stuck watching you make out with other guys.”

“Oh,” Quentin breathes out, pulling his legs up to his chest. “Yeah, maybe. That would certainly be a change of pace.”

The hydromancy show wraps up with a literal splash, a controlled wave of water that hits the beach with a spray, soaking those sitting close enough to the shoreline to be in its radius. Luckily, they’re far enough back, seated as they are in the warm sand party up the beach, catching nothing more than a few droplets. Quentin’s grinning as they clap for the performers, but something’s gone tense around the edges out his expression, eyes darting around with a nervous air. 

“Hey,” Eliot murmurs, because in for a penny, in for a pound. The worst anyone can say is no. “What do you think of doing some swimming at the zone two beach? It’s probably pretty quiet out there, since everyone’s here getting food and watching the performances.” 

“Oh, um—” Quentin looks over at him, a little shy, and Eliot’s got nothing to offer but a smile and a kiss, thumb brushing against the point of Quentin’s jaw in a way that he hopes is reassuring. Nerves melt to determination on Quentin’s face, and excitement bubbles in Eliot’s belly before Quentin even finishes speaking. “Yeah, okay. I mean, might as well give it a shot, right?”

“Only if you want,” Eliot promises, though the grin tugging across his face probably doesn’t help sell it too well.

Quentin laughs, nudging in to kiss Eliot again, short and fleeting. “Come on, before I change my mind.”

A banner of gold and silver hangs over the walking path between the two beaches, officially marking the separation between the two zones, fluttering lightly in the sea breeze as they walk under it. Eliot takes Quentin’s hand under the guise of guiding him, like Quentin isn’t capable of figuring out a footpath on his own. It’s silly, but Quentin doesn’t protest, just shoots Eliot a soft little smile, dimples creasing at the corners of his mouth. The urge to push him up against a tree and kiss that sweet mouth is pretty powerful, but Eliot manages to hold it at bay in favor of bigger and better things. 

They emerge from the trees out onto the sundrenched beach, another expanse of white sand and sparkling blue water, so beautiful it almost can’t possibly be real. Tents stand at the back of the beach near the treeline, set far enough back that a large expanse of beach separates them from the water. Dotted here and there along the sand are other festival go-ers, relaxing naked in the morning sunlight. A few celebrants have clearly ventured out to get food and brought it back to the quieter beach, but he’d been right to think most people would favor the zone one celebration this morning. No one pays them any mind, but Quentin’s still looking a little flighty, eyes darting around like he’s not sure where he’s supposed to look.

“It’s okay,” Eliot promises, laughing a little when Quentin startles. Reeling Quentin in towards his body, Eliot leans in to kiss his cheek, drawing his nose up along Quentin’s hairline until he starts to unwind a little. Distraction seems the best way to untangle the knot of Quentin’s self-consciousness, and that Eliot can easily provide. “C’mon, look, see? There’s cubbies for your clothes.”

They strip down with little fanfare, though Quentin starts turtling in on himself a bit once it comes time to take his boardshorts off. But he powers through it, and then Eliot catches his gaze with an easy grin, eyebrows up. “Race you to the water?”

Quentin laughs, startled but Eliot doesn’t wait around for him to get the picture, taking off towards the waterline with Quentin’s “hey!” ringing out behind him. 

Eliot’s got the advantage of long legs on his side, but Quentin’s fast, weirdo who runs for fun that Eliot suspects him to be. They splash into the ocean at about the same time, tumbling into the surf with laughter ringing out around them. Even some of the other attendees lingering on the beach are laughing when Eliot breaks the surface of the water, and he can only imagine how silly they looked, sprinting naked into the water. He doesn’t care, though, not even a little, because Quentin’s smiling at him, bright and dimply, and really what else could Eliot ask for than that?

The water is just the right temperature, cool enough to provide relief from the mediteranian heat, but warm enough to feel pleasant on the skin. It’s a particular kind of joy to move naked through the water, unencumbered by the weight of a swimsuit. A feeling of freedom comes with it, once you get past the strangeness, and it’s truly wonderful to watch Quentin relax into the sensation. He seems determined to actually swim for a bit, taking advantage of the crystal clear water to dive under and explore the shoreline. Eliot follows him at a lazier pace, more interested in appreciating the strength of Quentin’s slim little body pushing through the water than anything else. That _ass_ , truly it is a gift, even better illuminated by dappled sunlight breaking through the surface of the water and refracting in ever-changing organic patterns.

Eventually Eliot gives up on keeping up with him, choosing instead to simply float on the water and enjoy being rocked by the waves. The sky is a clear, bright blue dotted with fluffy white clouds, so picturesque it seems impossible. There are, Eliot knows, some pretty heavy duty weather spells set up over the island for the duration of the festival. They’re a bitch to cast, he knows firsthand, collaborative casting with circumstances so complicated he’d be stuck doing proofs for a week solid in the run-up to the last wedding for work, and that had only been a three-day affair. It had brought him near enough to _tears_ , trying to keep the alignment of the man made-satellites and the force they exert on the tides straight in his mind, awake until 3 am when Margo had practically kicked down his bedroom door and dragged him to sleep in her room, insisting _“You’re not going to lose your job, dumbass, but you might portal onto some traintracks by accident if you don’t get some fucking sleep—”_

There’s a soft sploosh of water, breaking Eliot from his thoughts as Quentin surfaces, treading water one handed as he pushes his hair out of his face with the other. “I found a crab,” Quentin informs him, grinning with a kind of boyish joy so cute it drains away the dark cloud that had begun to form over Eliot’s head. 

“Did it bite you?”

“I don’t think crabs bite,” Quentin protests, then makes a snappy claw motion out at Eliot with his free hand, clearly demonstrating crab defense mechanisms. “And no, it didn’t.”

“That’s good.” Righting himself in the water, Eliot matches Quentin’s posture. They’re close enough to the beach that Eliot can stand, though a little far out for Quentin to, and it sends a sparkle of heat up Eliot’s belly, the reminder of the difference in their build, how much he can tower over Quentin if he wants to.

“So what’s the deal with the tents?” Quentin asks, clearly shooting for casual and missing by about a mile. Eliot smiles, letting the warm waves move him in the water. 

“Well, there’s a tent for whatever you’re into,” he says with a shrug. The movement catches Quentin’s eye, drawing his gaze across Eliot’s collarbones and down his chest. It makes him want to purr and preen a little, the way Quentin can’t stop _looking_ at Eliot like he wants to eat him. “A couple of them are for people who want other people to see them. A couple are more private and better furnished.”

“Meaning... what, exactly?”

“You know,” Eliot says lightly, trailing the tips of his fingers through the water. “I could tell you, but I think it would be more fun to show you. If you think you can handle it.”

It’s a gamble, phrasing it like a challenge, but, well— Eliot’s starting to feel like he knows Quentin, at least a little, and one thing he knows is that Quentin will never back down from a challenge. He pinks up beautifully along the line of his cheekbone, but his jaw sets in a stubborn frown. “I can handle seeing what you’re talking about, at least.”

“Then let’s go.”

Dripping their way across the beach, Eliot can feel Quentin’s self-consciousness in the way he sticks close to Eliot’s back, hiding himself from view as thoroughly as possible. Eliot doesn’t mind, he’s happy to be looked at in Quentin’s stead, but the truth is no one’s paying the least bit of attention to them. It’s finally late enough in the day that people are moving around, many eating food brought over from zone one, others just getting right down to brass tacks on the beach, kissing and touching as much as is permitted in the zone two space. No one is paying attention to them as Eliot steers them towards the tents. The three he’s aiming for have a teal banner hanging in front, and Eliot nudges Q to point at it.

“Teal means privacy,” he explains, then points to the next three over. “Coral means anyone is free to watch.”

“Huh.” Quentin squints at the three teal tents. “You wouldn’t think three tents would be enough for everyone to get privacy if they want it.”

To that, Eliot doesn’t respond. Instead, he just curls his hand around Quentin’s wrist and tugs him inside one of the teal tents. The effect is immediate: they’re dry the moment they step through the tent and into a wide open foyer of cut stone and dark wooden beams. Quentin gasps, shivering as the spell hits him, taking the wetness from his skin and hair. It always leaves goosebumps on Eliot’s skin, and he turns to run his palms soothingly up and down Quentin’s arms with a soft grin. “How bad is my hair? That spell always makes me frizzy.”

But Quentin’s not even looking at him, staring up in open-mouthed wonder at the huge space, with its multiple doorways leading off the big hall. “It’s like the TARDIS in here. What kind of magic is this?”

“Thibadeau’s Planar Compression,” Eliot responds immediately, sparks of happiness pinging in his belly when Quentin looks around with open fascination. “It’s actually a pretty simple theory, I’ve been using it on my closets since first year.”

“Right,” Quentin says, looking back at Eliot. Then he grins abruptly, reaching up to tug on one of Eliot’s curls. “Oh, hey. You are frizzy.”

“Thanks,” Eliot says dryly, but Quentin seems happy. He’s still smiling when he pushes up on his toes to kiss Eliot, anyway, the heat of his naked body radiating into Eliot’s skin. It sends a jolt of arousal through Eliot, and god it’s been at max five hours since he last got off but it suddenly feels like about a million years. How is he supposed to feel anything else with Quentin right here in front of him, all naked and curious and sweet— god, Eliot feels like a man possessed. “Wanna see the rooms?”

“Absolutely,” Quentin agrees immediately, giggling when Eliot kisses the tip of his nose and pulls away. He checks the rooms at the front of the tent first, his favorites for their big windows facing out to the beach. Both are occupied, however, so Eliot finds the next unlocked door and shepherds Quentin inside.

The door opens into a large room, lit along the far side by spacious gable windows facing the lush vegetation of the island. A wide rustic canopy bed dominates one side of the room, dark stained wood with soft blue bedding. The other side holds a truly massive bathtub, which Eliot knows from personal experience can easily fit at least two people. There’s also a sunbed tucked in the recess under one of the gable windows, topped with a squishy cushion deep enough for two people to stretch out in, scattered with throw pillows and a single soft blanket and absolutely drenched in sunlight. This seems to catch Quentin’s interest, drawing him towards it like a moth to the light.

“It feels like real sunlight,” Quentin murmurs with wonder in his voice, holding his hand out into golden light spilling through the window.

“That’s ‘cause it is,” Eliot sighs, settling back to stretch out on the cushion, letting the warmth of it heat his skin. He feels gloriously on display like this, naked and illuminated as Quentin’s eyes flick over to him, raking down his neck and chest, down and down to where Eliot’s soft cock lays against his thigh. 

“I know I’m really curious about that, but suddenly I can’t remember why,” Quentin says, still kind of staring directly at Eliot’s cock. He’s so fucking cute, so damn pretty, Eliot feels champange bubbles under his skin everytime the sunlight catches Quentin’s profile, his unfairly long eyelashes lighting up until they glow. His chest hair is a soft patch between his dusky pink nipples, his own cock a shy little weight between his legs, not much to look at when soft but, fuck— Eliot wants to make him hard, watch him grow thick and full under Eliot’s hand. 

“We can talk about magic theory later,” Eliot promises, amused, holding out a hand towards Quentin in invitation. Q takes it, crawling up the cushion until he’s hovering over Eliot, shy smile lurking around the corners of his mouth. Eliot has _butterflies_. “Hi there.”

“Hi,” Quentin greets, settling his weight on Eliot’s thighs. His eyes drag over Eliot’s body again in a wide arc, a little shake of the head follows the movement, like he just can’t believe what he’s seeing. “You’re so— God, is it corny if I tell you that you’re so fucking sexy, El?”

Eliot’s stomach swoops. He can’t resist the urge to preen a little bit, arch his back, flex his stomach. It’s not like he doesn’t know what he’s working with, but it’s always nice to feel appreciated, validated, especially when surrounded by a lot of other attractive men, many of whom are much more built, or much more femininely waifish than Eliot himself. He’s never going to be a twinky androgyne or a leather daddy and he’s learned to be comfortable with that, but it is nice sometimes, to have ammunition against the impulse to compare himself to the men he wants to fuck.

“No, not at all, baby. It’s nice, it feels good,” Eliot murmurs in reassurance. Reaching out, he offers up both hands, palms up, until Quentin gets the hint and takes them, lets Eliot guide his hands down to rest on Eliot’s sides, palms warm against his skin. “I want you to touch me, okay? Show me what you like, what turns you on. Touch me anywhere you want to.”

Pink stains Quentin’s cheeks, but his eyebrow goes up, giving Eliot a teasing look. “So now it’s my turn to do all the work, huh?”

“Oh hush, pillow princess, I’ll let you lay back and get fucked later,” Eliot huffs, which makes Quentin laugh, bright and full.

“Magnanimous of you,” he agrees, but he’s reaching up to trail his fingers along Eliot’s throat, so he seems willing to play along. “I actually really like, you know— doing stuff? Like, knowing I’m doing it well, knowing I’m making you feel— well, not _you_ you, but like the generic you— making whoever I’m fucking feel good. I want to be good at it.”

“Baby, you really, really are,” Eliot promises, settling his hands on Quentin’s waist, looking at him looking at Eliot. Quentin’s fingers trail along the line of Eliot’s jaw, startling a laugh out of him when Q reaches up to scratch at his sideburns. Then they float down, raising shivers over Eliot’s skin as gentle fingertips glide over his throat, stopping to nudge against his Adam’s apple and then down further, to the notch of his collarbones. Quentin’s touch is light, and it wakes up Eliot’s nerves, leaving ghostly trails behind as he moves down towards Eliot’s chest.

“I like this,” Quentin admits as his fingers tangle in Eliot’s chest hair, rubbing down to the skin so Eliot can feel the catch of his fingernails. “It gets really dark when you’re swimming, and it’s just— really hot, god.” He tugs a little and Eliot’s breath hitches, unconsciously pushing his chest up into Quentin’s hands. Taking it like a hint, Quentin flattens his palms and drags them until he can get his thumbs on Eliot’s nipples. Tiny cascading ripples of pleasure expand out from Quentin’s fingers, and Eliot sighs happily, letting his eyes flutter shut. A pleasant heat starts in his groin, like there’s a direct line of connection between the points of his nipples and the head of his cock. 

“S’nice,” He breathes out, blinking his eyes open to watch heat settle into Quentin’s gaze. His hands are moving with purpose now, sliding down Eliot’s stomach towards his cock. It’s still soft, though twitching with interest, and Quentin touches him with a tender kind of care that makes Eliot’s insides feel sticky.

“Does it feel weird if I–?” Quentin starts, rubbing the tip of his finger along the top of the foreskin before dipping inside to brush against the head.

“No,” Eliot groans, hips shifting unconsciously. “It’s good, ah— Sensitive? But you can play, I’ll stop you if it stops feeling good.”

It’s a heady fucking feeling, to have Quentin’s intense curiosity turned on him. He touches Eliot so carefully, sliding his fingertip up under the skin, stretching it in a way that tugs in Eliot’s belly, not at all bad but strange. The stimulation directly on the head of his soft dick borders on oversensitivity, but the active effects of the zone three spells keep it from tipping into pain, just burbling on the edge of excitement and pleasure. Before long Quentin’s gently coaxing the foreskin back as Eliot starts to get hard, then cupping his broad hand around Eliot’s cock and balls and rubbing gently until Eliot swears, hips lifting into Quentin’s hand. 

“I want to ride you,” Quentin says, open and honest and raw, licking his lips and tilting his head and— He’s gotta be playing Eliot, right? There’s no way he _can’t_ know how hot that is, how gorgeous he is. “I haven’t done it like that, either. Can I?”

“This is payback for the pillow princess comment, isn’t it,” Eliot gets out, voice strangled. Quentin snorts out a laugh, and it shouldn’t be cute, it shouldn’t, but then he’s leaning down and kissing Eliot, and Eliot forgets to care. Q’s fingers pet at his sideburns again, pushing up into Eliot’s frizzy curls as he licks out across Eliot’s lip, warm and wet and _good_. If Eliot wasn’t already laying down his fucking knees would go weak at Quentin kissing him, kissing him like he’s hungry for it, his hair swinging down in a curtain to brush again Eliot’s cheek. He makes just the happiest little sound when Eliot slides his hands up from Quentin’s hips to his cute little waist, up and back and up his spine until he’s holding Quentin against his chest. 

They make out lazily in the sun for longer than Eliot would usually bother to, but it’s nice, a luxury in and of itself to indulge himself in Quentin’s sweet mouth, all his happy little moans. Quentin seems to love being kissed, and his skin is so soft, all available for Eliot to touch, his hips a perfect little rocking motion against Eliot’s as they both get hard. It’s only when Eliot’s hands wander down to Quentin’s perfect ass that he seems to remember where he was going with this in the first place. 

“I think I’m still open enough from this morning,” Quentin pants, hips rocking a little against Eliot’s hands. And god, Eliot wants him to be, the thought is _so fucking hot_ , Quentin going about his day with this space carved out inside him just perfect for Eliot to tuck right into, but. There are certain logistics you get used to dealing with, when you have Eliot’s dick.

“There’s a spell to, you know. Make sure I don’t hurt you,” Eliot offers, thumbs rubbing into the meat of Quentin’s ass cheeks. “Help you relax, get you wet inside. I don’t like doing that and no prep, normally, but like you said. Hasn’t been that long.”

“Yeah, yeah, fuck. Give me all your magic.”

Grinning, Eliot nudges him to sit up until he’s perched on Eliot’s thighs again, his cock standing up proud now against his belly, shiny wet at the tip. That hunger in Eliot’s belly spikes and he reaches out to give it a friendly squeeze, a stroke or two, just to feel the girth of it in his hand. It makes Quentin grunt, an enticingly masculine sound, and god, Eliot wants to be inside his body so fucking bad. What’s he waiting for?

The tut is simple, one-handed, with a murmur of ancient Greek to accompany it, and ends with him pressing his palm flat to Quentin’s groin, thumb stroking a steady arc across his pubic bone. Eliot can feel the movement of magic through him and into Quentin, the exact moment Quentin gasps at the sensation, a tingle and loosening Eliot knows very well. Quentin’s hips twitch under his palm, an aborted little movement like he’s not sure what to do with the feeling. 

“That’s it,” Eliot soothes, and it’s maybe a little patronizing but Quentin certainly doesn’t seem to mind. Not if the way he braces his left hand on Eliot’s chest and reaches back to get a hold of Eliot’s dick is any indicator, anyway. 

So far eagerness has out-matched Quentin’s inexperience, but he fumbles a bit now, trying to figure out how to angle Eliot’s cock and his own hips without losing his balance or pinching anything delicate. It creases a little frown in his brow which is fucking adorable, but Eliot actually does want to avoid getting his balls crushed more than he wants to watch Quentin’s determined little face. So he offers a hand, in the form of taking control of wielding his own dick, letting Quentin reach up to guide the head in against where he’s wet and stretched and loose.

And it’s— _ah—_ it’s a moment of heart-stopping pressure before the head of Eliot’s dick pops in and Quentin groans, a guttural, deep sound that makes Eliot’s head spin. His hands fly back to Quentin’s hips, bracing him as he adjusts, finding the right angle that he can slide down on, thighs trembling.

“It’s okay, go slow,” Eliot gets out, even though _slow_ is the last thing he wants, fucking desperate to plant his feet flat and thrust up, bury his dick deep in Quentin’s tight little ass.

“Jesus,” Quentin groans, head lolling back to expose the long plane of his throat, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows. “Oh Jesus, Eliot, it’s so— It’s like I can feel you in my fucking _belly_ , it’s so— _big—_ ”

A wave of arousal rolls through Eliot’s body, and fuck, _fuck_ , maybe Eliot should be over getting off on the big dick shit, but it’s just so mind-bendingly hot, how into it Quentin is. “Taking it so well,” he murmurs, rubbing his thumbs into Quentin’s hip bones. Q rolls his hips a little in response, a tiny little undulation that drags along the length of Eliot’s dick and makes them both moan. “Oh, god, baby, that’s so good.”

“Yeah?” There’s a lightness to the word, teasing, and then Quentin’s pushing up with those fucking mouth-watering thighs of his and sinking back down again, working up a rhythm as his body relaxes into the stretch. Bracing a hand on Eliot’s chest for balance, he catches Eliot’s eye with a little smirk. “Who’s a pillow princess now?”

“I take it back,” Eliot gasps, gripping Quentin’s hips to hold on for dear life. “Oh, _fuck_ , Q.”

It takes a bit to find a rhythm. For as eager as he is, Quentin can’t sustain the pace he wants for very long, frustrated little whimpers slipping from him as his fingers curl in against Eliot’s chest. But a bit of adjustment so Eliot can get his feet up under him and then suddenly they’re moving together, Quentin rocking down to meet Eliot’s upward thrusts. 

Quentin’s— he’s fucking gorgeous like this, honestly. Delicate pink flush spreads down from his cheeks, across his shoulders and the top of his chest, down to where his nipples stand out in hard little points. They’re the same color of rosey pink as the head of his cock, hard and leaking between his legs, bouncing with every movement of their bodies. His brows are knitted together in concentration, a serious, somber kind of look which makes Eliot want to make him laugh, make him smile, delight lightness back out of him. “Lean back,” he murmurs to Quentin, hands moving up to brace on his ribs. 

“What?”

“Lean back, I’ve got you, don’t worry.”

“Like— get off your dick, or?”

“No, no,” Eliot rushes, a laugh burbling up at the end of the word at his own eagerness. No, god, he never wants Quentin to get off his dick again, if there were a way to just stay in there for the next several years, that would suit Eliot just fine. “No, just shift your weight, here, lean back into my hands.”

Quentin, predictably, does as he’s told, repositioning himself so he’s tipping backwards a little, the meat of his asscheeks making contact with the tops of Eliot’s thighs. “I can’t kiss you like this,” he complains, adjusting his knees so he can catch his balance, almost sitting back on his heels. 

“You weren’t kissing me before,” Eliot points out reasonably. “Besides, I don’t think you’re gonna care about that.”

He punctuates the words with a hard upward thrust, hips snapping up into Quentin’s body with a resonant _thwap_ , wet skin-on-skin fucking sounds as Quentin’s eyes go wide. “ _Oh_ – ah, _fuck,_ ” He moans, tension coiling in his body as the new angle drives Eliot’s dick against his prostate for the entirety of the slide. “Oh, _oh_ my god.”

“Yeah,” Eliot agrees, a little smug maybe, but there’s literally nothing in the world like the feeling of someone clamping down on his dick in pleasure, and Quentin’s so responsive. So sensitive. So _eager_ , hips already working to rock against that point of pleasure deep inside of him, mouth open and eyes half closed. “You feel so good, baby. Are you feeling good? Tell me.”

“So— it’s so— so good, El, it’s _so much_ ,” Quentin sobs, restless hands flutter now that he can’t brace on Eliot’s chest. Without thinking Eliot reaches out to catch one, sending off a flood of champagne-bubble excitement in his belly as Quentin just— laces their fingers together, soft and sweet, like their hands are meant to fit like this. Wrapped around each other, entwined. 

“ _Q_ ,” Eliot gasps out, desperately clinging to the last tattered shreds of his self-control. “Touch yourself, sweet boy, c’mon. Tug on that pretty dick for me.”

Quentin’s response to that basically amounts to “ _Nhngfuck_ ,” but he does, reaches down for his dick with his right hand and clings to Eliot with his left. Eliot lets himself just watch, really see as Quentin chases pleasure, the no-nonsense, no-finesse way he jerks his cock, the roll of enjoyment across his face. He gets to watch the thin stream of precome leaking out of Quentin’s dick, the slit winking open to drool out more wetness every time Eliot’s cock drags right inside Quentin’s body, balls pulled up tight to his body. He’s— fucking _radiant_ , in the sunlight streaming into the little sunbed, lighting him up like he’s glowing. It’s so fucking breathtaking, Eliot feels like he’s floating—

No, he is _actually floating_ , they’re hovering a good six inches off the cushion of the sun nook. Quentin notices at the same moment Eliot does, eyebrows pulling up. “The fuck?” Quentin laughs out in delight, wonder melting off his face as he starts to come, breathless and awed. Eliot’s not far behind, a handful of hard snapping thrusts up, driving his cock deep into the sweet tight grip of Quentin’s body. Orgasm catches deep and pulls, pulses of pleasure radiating out through him, so good it almost hurts.

“Holy fuck,” Quentin pants, still gripping Eliot’s hand as they float gently back down onto the cushion. “I— That’s not just me, we were floating, right?”

“That was probably me,” Eliot sighs out, groaning a little as Quentin’s weight settles back onto his hips. It makes him shift enough for Eliot’s softening cock to slip from his body, making them both gasp. “I’m telekinetic. But I haven’t lost control like that in a while. It’s probably not the _best_ thing, all things considered but what’s a little harmless floating among friends?”

“You don’t know that it was you,” Quentin protests, tumbling off to the side with a groan until he can settle in against Eliot’s torso. “Maybe it was me. Maybe my discipline is actually floating during sex.”

“Only situationally useful, but may be helpful if you need to avoid sigils on the ground or something.” Eliot sighs, stretching, rolling his head over to catch Quentin’s eyes, warm brown and post-orgasmically sleepy, the smile on his lips. He’s still holding Eliot’s hand, and Eliot squeezes his fingers gently. “Gravity belt might be more practical though.”

“What’s a gravity belt?”

Eliot gives him an incredulous look. “What _are_ they teaching physical kids doing these days? ‘ _What’s a gravity belt_?’ Please.”

“Hey,” Quentin protests, poking Eliot’s chest. “I’m not a physical kid yet, I just sleep there.” Eliot has a retort on the tip of his tongue, but it gets suddenly hard to focus on much as Quentin starts playing with the hair on Eliot’s chest. A couple streaks of Quentin’s come made it up that far, and he’s playing with one, swirling it into the hair. It is, objectively, pretty gross, but Eliot’s too blissed out to care. Tingly and covered in come is how Encanto is supposed to go.

“Want to take a bath with me?” he asks, sleepily, not entirely convinced a bath is more important than a nap. He could probably be persuaded one way or the other. Quentin giggles a little, pressing a closed-lipped smile against the meat of Eliot’s shoulders.

“So are we leaving your legs out of this bath, or what?” 

“Enchanted bathtub,” Eliot says vaguely, waving over towards the luxury porcelain tub off to the side of the room. “We’ll fit, don’t worry.”

This, of course, makes Quentin perk up like a puppy. His enthusiasm is enough to get Eliot through a second wind to haul them both off the cushion in the sun nook on jelly legs long enough to make it over to the bathtub. He activates the faucet with a simple tut, then gives Quentin a speculative look. “Scent preferences? Chamomile is good for muscle soreness.”

“Works for me,” Quentin says with a shrug, looking curiously at the faucet. “So is it enchanted beforehand and you’re just activating it?” When Eliot hums in confirmation, Quentin shakes his head. “There’s so many enchantments layered on top of each other— the area-of-effect spells and the planar compression and the phosphormancy spells which I assume are providing our sunlight... the circumstances must be _insanely_ complicated.”

“We’re about one incorrect proof away from certain death, yes,” Eliot sighs, reaching out to hook a strand of Quentin’s hair behind his ear. “Surely you read your Brakebills waiver, the one that says ‘magic is not unlikely to accidentally murder you, and if so, sorry.’” 

“It’s unfair that all the cool things in life require so much math,” Quentin sighs, slumping into Eliot’s side so he can trail his fingers through the filling water. “Like magic and space travel.”

“No arguments from me there.” Quentin hums happily when Eliot leans in to press a soft kiss against his neck, tilting his face until Eliot obliges him with a kiss on the mouth, soft and slow until Quentin’s lips fall open with a sigh. It’s not the most comfortable place in the world to make out, perched on the edge of a bathtub, but Eliot’s not really interested in stopping. There’s something intimate about kissing with no intention of building to anything, and by the time they slide into the hot water, Eliot’s feeling a little giddy again.

The enchantment does it’s job, allowing them to settle comfortably into any position they so desire. The tub is deep, deeper than it appears, deep enough that the water comes up to the center of Eliot’s chest as he sinks back against one edge with a sigh, stretching his legs out against the building aching in his quads from all that upward thrusting. It’s not hugely surprising that Quentin worms his way between Eliot’s legs, turned to the side so he can tuck in against Eliot’s chest. He just... fits. He fits so well, here in Eliot’s arms, another little wave of sticky emotion surges up in Eliot’s chest as Quentin drops his cheek down against Eliot’s collarbone, melting into it as Eliot wraps an arm around him.

Reaching out, Quentin gets a hold of Eliot’s other arm, tugging it up out of the water so he can run his fingertips along the lines of the tattoo again, tracing the ink that lives enchanted under Eliot’s skin. It’s a feather-light touch, and it makes Eliot shiver, raising goosebumps on his skin. “I’m so glad you found me,” Quentin says after a moment, voice soft in the echoing stillness of the bath. “This week has already been so much more than I could have hoped.”

“Better than your book?” Eliot asks, teasing, sliding his arm back until he can twining his fingers through Quentin’s lazily. His body aches in that well-used way, muscles going loose in the hot water, and Quentin’s so gorgeous. Eliot kind of just wants an excuse to stare at him for a while. 

“I mean, I do like that book,” Quentin says, sheepish, ducking his head. “But I’ve— you know, read it before.” He’s frowning even as the words leave his mouth, a little crease between his brows. “That makes it sound like I’m saying your dick is less interesting than a new book and that’s totally not what I meant—”

“I’ll add that to my Yelp reviews,” Eliot teases, slow and drawling. “Dick game better than a good book.”

“Well I didn’t say a _good_ book,” Quentin shoots back, turning his head enough to bite lightly at Eliot’s shoulder, teeth a slight sting in the meat of the muscle. “Just a _new_ one.”

“Oh of course. My mistake.” Eliot can almost _feel_ Quentin’s eye roll, and it draws up that butterflies feeling, fluttery and excited in the pit of his stomach. Sinking his head back against the edge of the bathtub, Eliot catches Quentin’s gaze with a soft smile. “What’s your favorite book?”

Q blinks, startled, then gives a little sheepish smile. “Are you sure you want to open that can of worms? I’m not known for my brevity on this subject.”

_Delightful_. “Yeah, I really do,” Eliot says honestly, lazy in the curling steam and chamomile scent. He wanted nothing more than to spend the next half hour in this magically warmed bathtub, listening to Quentin talk about something he cares about. Sounds like heaven. 

Thus Eliot gets treated to a very impassioned lecture on the portal fantasy genre, and the feminist implications of _Fillory & Further _subverting the Hero’s Journey by inserting a mid-series pivot to focusing on the female sibling instead of her brothers _._ The title of the series sparks a memory in Eliot, but he’s not overly familiar with the books, and says as much to Quentin. “I think I got part way through the first one in late elementary school,” he muses thoughtfully. “Sounds vaguely familiar. The cover had like— a girl looking over her shoulder and a clock? Lots of fog?”

“Ugh, yeah, that’s the post-Twilight re-release cover,” Quentin says, scrunching up his nose adorably. “They tried to repackage it as, like— YA supernatural romance, which is _not_ the Fillory vibe, let me tell you. It’s closer to _Alice in Wonderland_ or _Narnia_ , but then again, those probably got repackaged too. How far did you get?”

“I honestly don’t remember,” Eliot says with an easy shrug, smiling at Quentin’s earnest nod. He _does_ clearly remember having it confiscated on the grounds of welcoming the devil into his young mind, though, and the ensuing punishment that followed. Relaxing in a bathtub at a bacchanal with a naked, eager boy in his lap, Eliot chooses to find the memory amusing. Certainly a book featuring magic and talking animals couldn’t have made him turn out _worse_ , in his parents’ eyes. 

Quentin’s enthusiasm is infectious, though, lighting up and talking with his hands the whole time. He gets all shy again at the end of his rant, sheepish like Eliot’s going to judge him for being passionate. And then what is there for Eliot to do beside bully him out of the bathtub and over to the bed, curl his fingers around one of the posts of the canopy with instruction not to let go while Eliot shows him just how sexy he finds Quention’s passion? 

Quentin sobs his way through Eliot slowly, languidly sucking his dick until his belly’s trembling, but he doesn’t let go. He holds on even after he comes, when Eliot knee-walks up his chest and gently feeds his cock into Quentin’s waiting, eager mouth. It’s a trip, how good he is, how eagerly he drinks up Eliot’s praise and holds on, fingers tight on the wood while Eliot works his cock into the sweet heat of Quentin’s mouth, coming with a grunt across his tongue. Only then does Quentin let go, allowing Eliot to cuddle him in against his chest. 

Holding on to each other, they both drift off in the lazy heat of late afternoon into a much needed nap.


	3. Night Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry it's been so long since the last update. I hope the next one comes more swiftly, I will do my best on that front. I hope you're all still interested in some summer fun, even though it is very much no longer summer.
> 
> Big thanks to **hoko_onchi** for beta-reading this chapter.

They retreat back to zone one for a while in the evening. Quentin’s looking a little ragged around the edges, and Eliot just wants his company, his thoughtfulness and his curiosity. They eat their fill from the buffet and talk some more, stretched out in the sand while they digest. There are new art projects to admire, and even a couple to take part in— they join a group of women twice their age casting a cooperative spell to create an illusion effect like stain-glass. Illusion work has never been a speciality of Eliot’s, but as part of group effort he can bring to the table an understanding of physical space which gives the final piece a kind of weight and heft the illusions rarely have. Quentin’s magic, as they flow together, feels similarly solid, the kind of magic meant to build and fix and shape the world it runs through. Eliot’s no expert, and god knows Brakebills’ discipline tradition is archaic at best, but Quentin’s magic feels physical to Eliot. 

By the time it’s getting to nightfall, Eliot feels the itching call of the festivities once again. Tonight, there’s a dance on the zone two beach, he knows, and Quentin agrees to give it a shot with less hesitance than Eliot was really expecting. Heavy pounding base sinks into Eliot’s bones as they step through the zone two gate, as sourceless and omnipresent as the flashing lights. Quentin’s a little less shy this time about getting naked, though if that’s the wine they’d shared with their dinner or having done this once before, Eliot couldn’t say. He still seems a little unsettled, looking out into the crowd of gathered dancers like he’s having second thoughts about the whole endeavor. Which, that’d be fine. Eliot can get lost in the crowd without his shy little nerd, and he’ll have a good night, but...

It won’t be satisfying, really, because what he wants is to _watch Quentin come apart_. It would be an indulgence to the highest degree, to watch tension bleed out of Quentin’s jittery frame, to _show him_ what he can be when he lets himself unwind, what he can be when he lets himself be with other people. The idea of watching Quentin lose himself in the crowd is more appealing than losing himself in it.

Quentin glances over at Eliot, uncertain, like Eliot’s his steady point of reassurance in this unknown. It makes Eliot feel— powerful, useful, _wanted_. Butterflies of excitement flutter in his belly, god, while Quentin looks to him for guidance.

“Okay?” he asks softly, turning towards Q, who’s still wearing his swim trunks. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. But I want you here, if you’re comfortable.”

“‘Comfortable’ might be— out of reach,” Quentin says, strangled, his eyes drifting back in fascination towards the naked bodies dancing on the beach. “It looks like everyone’s just gonna start fucking here.”

“The beach is zone two,” Eliot points out, and fuck, he has to touch, he’s not even— _in it yet_ , and he wants to touch Q so much. Casually he reaches out to brush his fingers down Quentin’s arm, and Quentin reaches up for his hand automatically, holding on. “That’s not to say someone’s not gonna accidentally get off on the grinding, but they’re supposed to go to the tents or the lagoons for anything more.”

“Jesus. Is it gonna freak people out if I get hard? Am I gonna be the freak who can’t like—”

“Quentin,” Eliot cuts him off gently, stepping in closer so he can take Quentin’s other hand and really impose his height. Quentin blinks up at him, pretty pink mouth open on a word that died on his tongue. “I’m going to get hard. Everyone here wants you hard. They want you to enjoy yourself. There’s no unspoken rules you need to follow here, everything is very clear. Don’t actually aim to get off in zone two, don’t go naked into zone one, that’s pretty much it.”

“Oh,” Quentin says weakly, and honestly, Eliot had been expecting more protest. But Quentin’s just staring up at him, a little stunned, neck all pretty and stretched out and splotched with pink where Eliot had set his teeth that morning. 

Eliot grins and ducks his head just enough that his breath brushes out across Quentin’s lips, so he’s straining up towards them. He could probably go up on his toes and close the gap, but he’s not doing it, just letting Eliot tease him. _He likes that I’m taller_ , Eliot realizes, and it’s— _fuck_ , it’s hot. “Wait here,” Eliot murmurs, mouth just barely brushing Quentin’s, and then pulling away, stepping back. Quentin makes a bereft little sound, not quite letting go of Eliot’s hands so they trail out in front of him as he backs up. “I’ll be right back, I promise.”

He finds what he’s looking for quickly, one of the servers in their shiny Encanto gold; they’re easy to spot in the sea of naked bodies. There’s a girl with a little tray over by the bar and he heads over to her with a smile. “What’ve you got?”

“What are you looking for?” she asks with a pleasant smile, nodding towards the tray full of little potion bottles. 

“Something for sensitivity and lowering inhibitions, maybe?”

“Blues are good for that,” she answers, indicating the little vial of electric blue glowing liquid. 

“Perfect.” 

He palms two blue bottles with a wink and heads back towards Quentin, who’s managed to get his shorts off, but is just kind of standing staring off into the trees like not looking at people might deter them from looking at him in return. He unwinds a little bit when he catches sight of Eliot, eyes drawing gratifyingly down the naked front of Eliot’s body like he hasn’t put his mouth on most of it already. His eyebrows go up in wordless question at the bottles, and Eliot holds one out to him.

“Might help you feel less wound up.”

“I’m not supposed to take drugs from strangers,” Quentin points out, teasing, but he’s already reaching for the bottle.

“A good policy, but these are provided by the festival. Don’t take pills from anyone, though,” He adds as an afterthought. “Anything sanctioned by the festival is in potion form.” 

“Good to know.” Quentin agrees dryly, following Eliot’s lead in popping the cork off the bottle. “This is less sexy than licking E off your tongue, though.”

It sends a jolt of surprised heat through Eliot’s body, and he can almost feel the sensation of it, Quentin yielding for him, trusting him. “Sexy comes next,” is all he has to offer in response. He downs his little bottle, Quentin following suit. The potion tastes like almonds, of all things, and goes down smooth. 

Quentin takes his like a shot, like he’s expecting it to taste revolting. Eliot doesn’t mean to laugh at him, but at Quentin’s perplexed expression, Eliot can’t help but reel him in for a kiss, so he can taste the sweetness of the potion on Eliot’s tongue. “Oh,” he murmurs, a little surprised, then grins. “Okay, that was sexy.”

“Glad you think so,” Eliot says warmly, and takes him by the hand, leading him into the crowd.

Turns out Quentin hadn’t been lying when he said he doesn’t know how to dance. Which is just, frankly, mind boggling, considering he has absolutely _no_ issue making good use of his body when fucking— Eliot can attest to this first hand. But he’s very obviously caught up in his head, immediately, even in the middle of the dancing crowd. The potion works fast, but not quite that fast, and Eliot’s left to draw him in until he can get his hands on Quentin’s trim little waist, get Q’s attention focused on him.

“Feel the beat of the music,” Eliot murmurs, low enough that if they weren’t standing so close, Quentin probably wouldn’t be able to hear him. The music is all beat, really, low thumping base and fast rhythmic over-tones. Eliot can feel it reverberating in his chest, falling into the rhythm easily, moving his hips. “C’mon, move with me.”

“You say that like it’s just a _thing I can do_.”

“It is,” Eliot promises with a laugh, and— okay, new approach. “C’mere, pretty boy.”

Quentin rolls his eyes, but he also lets Eliot spin him around and pull him close, until Eliot’s chest brushes against his back, his bare ass rubbing against Eliot’s pelvis. And, oh, boy, if he wasn’t going to get hard already, he definitely is now, but it’s fine. It’s great, it’s perfect, because with Quentin caught in the bow of his body like this, it’s so much easier to hold his hips and guide him into a rhythm. _He likes that I’m taller_ , Eliot remembers, and pulls one of Quentin’s arms up around his neck, so he’s stretching, so he’s reaching back, really feeling how much he has to work to loop up around Eliot’s neck. Quentin’s mouth falls open, head tipping back onto Eliot’s shoulder, and— there it is, now they’re moving right, neat little rolls of their hips while they move together.

It also, conveniently, puts his mouth right next to Quentin’s ear. He hadn’t done that on purpose, but oh, it’s good, to be able to turn his face and murmur right against the shell of Quentin’s ear: “Look at them, Q.”

It gets him a shudder in response, but Quentin does, he does look, head picking up enough to look out into the sea of bodies. They’re all gorgeous, everyone moving together with abandon, naked and writhing in the moonlight. Everywhere around them they’re surrounded by soft breasts and hard cocks, planes of abs and soft bellies, strong arms and thick thighs, men and women and those who are neither, moving and sharing their bodies. 

“God, I– they’re watching us.”

And it’s true, some of those around them are. Eliot’s sure they make quite a sight, the way they’re moving together. Quentin alone would be a vision, pulled open and vulnerable, arched under Eliot’s hands, his sweet cock plumping up between his legs, clearly shy but willing to be tempted— a temptation in his own right. Eliot would be watching them too.

“They’re looking at you, pretty boy,” Eliot murmurs, dragging a hand up and down the plane of Quentin’s stomach. The potion’s kicking in now, making Eliot’s skin light up with sensation everywhere their bodies are touching. Quentin’s fingers scraping the short hairs at the base of his skull sends ripples of sensation sparkling down Eliot’s spine, bright little sparks of pleasure shivering out from where his hard nipples are rubbing against Quentin’s shoulder blades. Quentin’s skin feels like silk under his hands, the delicious texture of light hair under his palm as he rubs a hand down under Quentin’s navel, moving with the steady rhythm of their bodies.

In his arms, Quentin’s melting, like ice left out in the heat of the Mediterranean sun. He’s going liquid, moving under Eliot’s hand, his pretty pink mouth falling open to drag in air in hot needy gasps. Uninhibited is a deliciously good look on him, his head rolling back onto Eliot’s shoulder, holding on as Eliot rolls their hips together, dragging the stiffening line of his cock against Quentin’s ass, and _oh–_ Fuck, it feels good, the warmth of him, Eliot could move just a little and get his dick slotted in, _just right_ , but even this is just— delicious, rubbing against the plush yielding swell of Quentin’s perfect little ass.

“Feeling good?” Eliot murmurs into Quentin’s ear, dragging his nose down to run along the vulnerable shell of it, feeling Quentin shiver in response. Grinning, Eliot lets his tongue dart out against the edge of Quentin’s ear lobe, nibbling gently. God, he smells so good, sun and sea and boy, practically riding Eliot’s dick in the middle of the crowd.

“I— Fuck, yeah, it feels— like you’re in my _skin_ ,” Quentin gaps, and the answering nip to his neck only makes him cling harder. 

“You’re hard for me,” Eliot observes at a murmur, private and just for Quentin, probably barely audible over the pounding base for the music. But Quentin hears him, that much is evident from his full body shudder, the way he turns his face into Eliot’s neck. Embarrassed, and so turned on about it. God, Eliot can _so_ work with that. “Do you like everyone knowing how good you’re feeling, baby?”

The reality is that they’re well into being lost in the crowd at this point, and while those near them are certainly appreciative, they’re hardly causing a scene in the mass of bodies. Bare skin brushes against Eliot every couple seconds, legs and hips, the bump of an ass against his, but held in the protective shell of Eliot’s body, Quentin’s probably getting less of it. No, he’s just— visible, the arch of his hips, the tight prinkled points of his nipples, the long stretch of his neck as he arches under Eliot’s hands. And if he likes feeling seen, or likes feeling embarrassed about being seen, well— “God, _El_ ,” Quentin gasps, nose buried against the base of Eliot’s neck for a moment, then reemerging to look out at the crowd. “They’re all so...”

“So hot,” Eliot supplies, though he’s having a hard time paying attention to anything besides the feeling of Quentin’s body moving against his, the swell of hot tight pleasure in his dick, the view down Quentin’s arching torso to where his cute cock is standing up, deep pink and needy, wet at the tip just from Eliot rubbing against his ass. 

But he does make himself look out into the crowd, into the sea of bodies around them, following Quentin’s gaze to see where he’s lingering. He catches sight of a face he’s surprised to recognize, familiar from dalliances at previous festivals. The intervening year has treated Nicolo well, his skin a deep tan that contrasts breath-takingly with the woman in his arms, dancing back to chest in the same way Quentin and Eliot are. The woman is unfamiliar, but she’s pale with a delightful wash of freckles across her face and shoulders and a sweet smile, lovely blue eyes and a cascade of deep red hair. The heavy weight of her breasts sway with the music, her hips rolling back in Nicolo’s, his hands splayed across her pelvis above a matching thatch of red hair between her legs. Eliot can appreciate that, the stretch of those big, broad hands across pale skin. He has some very acute memories of just how nice Nicolo’s hands are, how good he is with them. They’re beautiful together, moving in the pulse of the night.

They’re also both watching him. Or maybe it’s Quentin who’s gotten their interest. Eliot certainly couldn’t blame them for that. 

“Hey,” Eliot breathes in Quentin’s ear, nudging against his cheek to get his attention. “We’ve caught someone’s eye.”

Quentin’s response comes in the form of a gasp, a stutter in the smooth motion of his hips. Sliding his hands back, Eliot gets both of Quentin’s hips in his hands, correcting the movement. It’s easy to do with the pulse of the rhythm beating through their sternums, like an externalization of their matching heartbeats. But Quentin’s attention is caught, now, turned towards Nicolo and his girl, head turned inexorably towards them in the crowd.

“They look good, don’t they?” Eliot breathes into Quentin’s ear, feeling— loose, easy, open from the potion. 

“Oh– _yeah_.” It’s half a moan, accompanied by a slow dirty roll of the hips, dragging over Eliot’s cock in a slow grind that drags up pleasure, sticky and thick, makes Eliot’s fingers tighten on his hips. 

“I know him,” Eliot offers, throwing a wink in Nicolo’s direction, watching him watch them, the other man’s eyes following the motion of their hips. “He’s got amazing hands— but who doesn’t, when it’s magicians you’re fucking?” Quentin’s hands tighten in response, squeezing at Eliot’s neck, and he laughs, absurdly delighted, brushing a kiss out across Quentin’s cheek. 

The glistening of the lights across the shifting muscles of Nicolo’s arms sparks hunger deep in Eliot’s gut, but even the soft swell of breasts tip with rosy pink nipples isn’t unappealing— bodies moving in the music and the magic tugs at something primal in Eliot, and Quentin’s fixated. Smiling, Eliot noses along Quentin’s hairline, drawing the sharp masculiune scent of Q’s sweat into his lungs like he can get higher just off that, off Quentin alone. Maybe he even could. The girl smiles, inviting, eyes on Quentin, and suddenly Eliot wants—

He wants to show Quentin everything he can have. He wants to experience it _with him_ , wants to watch his face go slack as a pretty girl slides hot and wet down his dick; wants Quentin to be _his to share_. It’s kind of an insane thought, and it slides right out of his brain as soon as it filters in, pushed away by the drugs and his own sense of self preservation. The idea is still appealing, though, especially when Nicolo catches Eliot’s eye again, eyebrow raised in wry invitation. 

It’s fucking Encanto Oculto. What’s the point if not to experience this, to share exactly what he wants with exactly who he wants to?

“Shall we go say hello?” Eliot murmurs into Quentin’s ear, nipping softly at the shell until Quentin nods, laughter tinged with shyness, but— eager. Willing to follow. God, how did Eliot get so lucky? “C’mon.”

They have to separate in order to navigate the crowd, but their hands come together almost without thought, fingers tangling together as Eliot takes the lead, like they belong that way. Moving through the crowd with purpose, Eliot guides Quentin over towards the other pair. 

“ _Ciao, Nicolo_ ,” Eliot calls out once they’re close enough, smiling. “ _Buon baccanale._ ”

“ _Buon baccanale,_ ” Nicolo responds in kind, his deep rich voice rolling with the shape of his accent. “You’re looking well, Eliot. I hoped I’d find you again this year.”

“Likewise,” Eliot says easily, drawing Quentin in front of him, draping one arm easily around the front of his chest, holding Q back against his body. “This is my friend, Quentin. Q, this is Nicolo and...”

“Kels,” she fills in, turning her sweet smile towards Quentin. She has an accent too, different from Nicolo’s, light and lilting. “Enjoying your festival?”

“Yeah, it’s— um,” Quentin stutters on himself, and Eliot can practically _feel him_ pointedly not looking at her tits. Adorable, honestly, Eliot wants to watch him bury his face in them— wants to watch him realize she wants him too. “It’s been an enlightening experience. It’s, like, culturally interesting—”

Biting back a laugh, Eliot slides his hand down Quentin’s front, catching his hips and nudging him forward. “Let’s exchange a little culture,” he teases, sliding his free hand down Quentin’s arm, twining their fingers together so he can lift their hands as one. Holding Quentin’s hand, he brings Quentin’s palm up to curve around Kels’ shoulder, sliding across the freckled skin and up her neck. She shivers visibly, leaning back into the sway of Nicolo’s body, head rolling to the side to give Quentin more access, and well— hard for even Quentin to miss the invitation in that. He loosens his fingers from Quentin’s, leaving him to his own exploration.

Nicolo’s eyes are still fixed on him, when Eliot looks up, sending a jolt of heat down to his cock, still hard between his legs. There’s amusement written in Nicolo’s dark eyes, but there’s heat too, and _fuck_ but that’s nice. God, it’s so fucking heady, the high of being seen and wanted. Being _desired_ is maybe the best drug Encanto has to offer. After all these years, Eliot’s never gotten his fill of it, but there’s something special to the thrill of it now, of being able to show it to Quentin, share this with him. 

It’s not surprising when one of Nicolo’s hands comes out to catch on Eliot’s elbow, tugging him closer in a way that’s more an invitation than a demand. Kels seems to be thinking along the same lines, her arms come up to loop around Quentin’s neck, a combined effort of reeling them in until Quentin and Kels are trapped in the close press of bodies. There’s no way Quentin’s dick isn’t pressed into the soft skin of her lower belly, and it’s— fuck, it’s _hot_. It’s hot in the same way it is to watch Margo take a thick stretch of dick, to watch a pretty boy with an eager mouth move from licking her clit to taking Eliot in his throat and back. 

_I want to share him_ spins through Eliot’s mind, wild and chaotic like the flashing lights of the dance floor. Helpless, Eliot ducks down to press his mouth to the salty skin of Quentin’s neck, lips tingling from the contact, sparkles of sensation that makes him want to— fuck, but then Quentin’s tiping his head back against Eliot’s shoulder and they _can_ , they can—

Kiss, deep and filthy and hungry, kiss like they need it to live, like the only oxygen in the world is inside their two mouths. That sweet, hot, eager little mouth, Quentin yields to him easily, mouth falling open so Eliot can lick inside, gently fuck his tongue between Quentin’s teeth while Quentin rides his cute little ass back on Eliot’s dick. It feels incredible, so much better than it should, sensitivity cranked up by the potion. All he’s aware of are the places he’s being touched: the slow, sucking heat of Quentin’s mouth, the brush of Kels’ fingers against his chest, the scrape of Quentin’s back against his sensitive nipples, Nicolo’s strong hands holding onto his arms, and— _fuck_ , his cock, fitting snug like it was meant to be there between the cheeks of Quentin’s ass. He wants more hands on him, he wants— someone on his dick, maybe, or maybe Nicolo’s skillful fingers in his ass. He wants to see Quentin fall apart.

Breaking away, Eliot’s head spins with the motion, warm humid air flooding his lungs as he drags in a breath of something other than Quentin’s tongue. All the amusement is gone from Nicolo’s gaze when Eliot looks back at him, that _desire_ more prominent than ever. Swallowing, Eliot drags his nose into Quentin’s soft hair and asks, loud enough to be heard of the music, “Shall we take this to a tent?”

Nicolo nods, eyes dark with interest, and when Eliot looks over at Kels she grins too. Pushes up to peck a gentle kiss in the corner of Quentin’s mouth, like that’s an answer. Maybe it is. It leaves Quentin’s face slack with surprise all the same like he can’t quite believe she wants him. Then he’s looking back at Eliot, something questioning in his face, and Eliot can’t help but lean down to drag his nose against Quentin’s cheek, breathe in the scent of him.

“Okay?” he asks, barely a breath, just for Quentin and no one else. He can feel the tremble of Quentin’s body against his, though if it’s anticipation or nerves Eliot couldn’t say.

But Quentin nods, brave, so fucking brave, leaning back into Eliot with a soft exhallation of “Yeah.”

Eliot grins, feeling elated. “C’mon.”

Moving through the crowd on their way out feels like sliding through realities. The pulse of the music beats hard in Eliot’s chest, like the rhythm itself is being written on his very bones. Color swirls through the air, and it feels less like flashing lights and more like moving through a prismatic spray, ethereal and almost liquid.

“Are you seeing this?” Quentin asks, shouting over the music, and Eliot laughs, looking down into his bright face, his eyes blown black. 

“Phosphomancy,” Eliot fills in, while Kels giggles, reaching her fingers out to swirl through the light, creating a little eddy of blue inside a whorl of brightest pink. 

“I love magic,” Quentin sighs, hand sliding into Eliot’s, weight leaning into Eliot, sending off a cascade of fizzy sparks under Eliot’s skin. 

The vibrancy of the magic lessons somewhat once they break away from the dance floor and start heading up the beach. The four of them are hardly the only people splintering off from the festivities; a fairly steady flow of people seem to be making their way to the zone three lagoon, and others still are heading towards the tents. Nicolo and Kels pull ahead slightly, leading the way towards the teal tents, and Eliot feels a weird pulse of relief he can’t explain, beyond that sharing Quentin with two people feels like enough. It’s an odd thought, because Eliot likes to be watched, he _loves_ being watched. The idea of others watching him take Quentin apart is _delicious_.

More than anything, he realizes, he’s just pretty sure the idea of being watched through whatever’s coming would make Quentin uncomfortable. That having a foursome might be enough pushing for one night. 

As soon as he has the thought, he notices Quentin starting to drag a little, lagging a bit behind as Kels and Nicolo reach the tent. Quentin’s not pulling away from him, no, if anything he’s holding Eliot’s hand that much tighter, but his eyes are fixed on the tent with unmistakable nervousness. 

“Q?” Eliot prompts gently, coming to a stop so he can turn and look, give Quentin his undivided attention. “Everything okay?”

“I’m not sure this is a good idea.”

Eliot’s stomach drops. He’d been pretty sure they were all on the same page, but suddenly he can’t help but feel like he misread something. Worry coalesces in Eliot’s stomach, and he frowns. “Quentin, if you don’t want to, it’s fine. I hope you know I’m not going to ask you to do anything you’re not comfortable with—”

“What? No, I mean, I want to. _Jesus_ , did you see how hot they are? Of course I _want_ to, it’s just...”

Eliot’s probably about one degree too high to really make sense of that gracefully, nevermind the fact that very little of his blood is currently in his brain. But Quentin’s twitchy, nervous, and _definitely_ not hard anymore and— even beyond feeling responsible for him, Eliot just... hates the idea of Quentin winding himself up, panicking out here in the sand. Reaching out with his free hand, Eliot catches a loose strand of Quentin’s hair that’s floating the breeze off the beach, tucking it gently behind his ear. “It’s just what, baby?”

Quentin’s breath escapes in a huff, his eyes cutting away. “Look— it’s apparently just easier with guys, I guess? To make them— like, I know what I’m working with and honestly you’ve been like, _super_ helpful with it all, you don’t leave me guessing and like— I’m just not sure I’m very good at it?”

“At— making girls come?” Eliot guesses, based almost entirely on context clues.

Quentin nods, still dodging Eliot’s gaze. “I couldn’t always do it, with Alice.”

Eliot frowns. “I’m sure it’s not a big issue if she brought you to an orgy.” 

“I think it’s pretty obvious she had no intention of having sex with anyone this week,” Quentin snaps, cheeks flushed, though if it’s in anger or embarassment is anyone’s guess. “Actually I’m pretty sure she brought me because she figured I was the only person she knew who wouldn’t be able to— you know. Hit it off, here.”

“Well, then she doesn’t know you very well,” Eliot says bluntly, shaking his head when Quentin starts to protest. “No, listen, Q. You two clearly have a history, and I’m not getting into that, but... if all you’re worried about is knowing what to do, I can definitely help you with that.”

“I— really?” Quentin asks, startled heat flooding his eyes, and _right_ , they’re still fucking high, Quentin’s uninhibited as fuck, which is probably the only reason he’s even managed to admit this at all.

“Really,” Eliot promises, lending down until his speaking directly over Quentin’s mouth, breath hot against his lips. “Will you let me? Let me help you make her come ‘til you’re messy with it?”

A soft whimper escapes Quentin’s sweet open mouth, and then he’s pushing up onto his toes, pushing up into Eliot a slow, incandescently dirty kiss. “That’s _so hot_ ,” Quentin whines a little, clutching at Eliot, and Eliot just—

Smiles down at him, feeling just so damn fond, affection twining tightly with the desire in his body. This boy, this sweet, brave man, how did Eliot even find him? Looping his arms around Quentin’s side, he rubs his palms up and down back. “I want to share this with you. I want to _share you_ with them _—_ ”

“Oh _fuck,_ ” Quentin hisses, pushing up onto his toes again, a little rocking motion so he can kiss hungrily at Eliot’s mouth.

Sliding his hand up into Quentin’s hair, Eliot makes a fist, pulling him back by it so he can smile down into Quentin’s blissed out face. “So don’t worry too much, okay? I’m certainly not going to make you deal with anything on your own. I take care of my things.”

“Am I one of your things?”

Eliot’s stomach jolts, but— with his inhibitions lowered, he can’t think of why that particular thought might draw up discomfort. “For tonight, at least.”

Their new friends are waiting for them as they step inside the entrance of the teal tent. The entryway of the tent is lit with a soft suffusing light, sourceless and warm, making their skin seem to glow as they kiss, Nicolo’s big strong hands cradling the soft dip of Kels’ waist. Eliot can feel more than hear Quentin’s breath catch next to him, and he grins, tugging Quentin towards them.

“Touch her shoulders,” Eliot instructs, low under his breath, nudging Quentin forward. Heat twists low and gratifying in Eliot’s gut as Quentin obeys, reaching up to carefully smooth his palms down the sides of Kels’ neck, his hands big and square as he slides them down along the freckled skin over her shoulders.

Her shiver is visible, and she breaks away from Nicolo to lean back into Quentin with a contented sigh. “Well, hello there,” she says, her voice welcoming under her soft lilt. “I’m looking forward to getting to know you better.”

Nicolo’s eyes are sparkling with amusement when he catches Eliot’s glaze, mouth quirking, and— It’s a good mouth. Eliot remembers that too. Leaving one hand pressing firmly against the small of Quentin’s back, Eliot moves in until he can reach out for Nicolo, catch him by the neck, fingers slide against his short dark hair so Eliot can reel him in for a kiss of his own. It’s a totally different kind of kiss than the ones he’s been sharing with Quentin; Nicolo kisses hard and hungry, giving no quarter, making Eliot work for every inch of ground he yields. 

It’s different, it’s _good_ , it’s what he comes to Encanto for. Infinite variety in infinite combination. The draw of Quentin is complicated; partly that he’s exactly all the things Eliot likes best— sweet and bratty, awkward and eager, enthusiastic and needy— but it’s also in part the way he makes Eliot feel— powerful, wanted, and full of care. Nicolo is none of those things, and attraction to him is simpler for it. The hunger Eliot feels for him is easy— a pure, base, animal thing. The push-pull of kissing him feels good because it’s simple— because it doesn’t matter if Eliot wins or loses. 

They part, Nicolo’s teeth dragging on Eliot’s lower lip, and Eliot blinks, trying to bring his mind back into himself. He’s aware of being watched, and when he looks over, Kels has an arm looped over Quentin’s shoulder, her temple against his cheek, both of them watching with open hunger. 

“Gorgeous, aren’t they?” Kels says allowed, ostensibly a question directed towards Quentin, but more a statement offered up, like a critical review. That doesn’t stop Quentin from nodding, his eyes fixed on Eliot’s mouth.

“Yeah, they really are.”

A grin spreads across Eliot’s mouth, and he digs his fingers a little into the skin on Quentin’s back, just to reaffirm his touch, their connection. To say— _I’m still here, I’ve still got you_. Quentin’s answering smile is a little shyer, but the sense that he’s being intentionally brave has passed. They’re in it, now, and Quentin’s there with him. 

“We should take this to a room, I think,” Nicolo muses, and Eliot nods.

“Lead the way.”

The rooms have changed, now that night has settled upon the festival. Gone are the bathtubs and the sunbeds and the four posters. Instead the room is dominated by a single huge mattress, sans blankets and pillows. Affectations removed, this is clearly a place intended for fucking, and excitement bubbles under Eliot’s skin as the door clicks shut behind them. 

Drawn together as though by a magnetic force they all gather together on the squishy surface of the bed. Without really meaning to, Eliot’s kissing Quentin again, licking into his sweet hot mouth, the soft strands of his hair like silk against Eliot’s fingers. Then he’s guiding Quentin’s mouth over to Nicolo, watching up close just how fucking _beautifully_ Quentin yields, lets Nicolo take and guide and taste. Warm skin presses along Eliot’s side, soft and smooth, and then Kels is nosing in against Eliot’s jaw, straining to reach even that far. Thoughtlessly, Eliot turns towards her, let’s her catch his mouth in a testing kiss. She’s a good kisser, and his body responds, high on the drug and touch both. 

Her mouth is pink from the scratch of his stubble when he draws away, aware of the weight of their audience on him. He’s already grinning when he looks over at Quentin who’s watching him with dark, hungry eyes, so turned on and so, _so_ willing to let Eliot pull him in. Tightening his hand up in Quentin’s hair, Eliot guides him forward until he gets the message, mouth opening hot and hungry against Kels’ lips, swallowing down her hungry little sounds. With Eliot to guide him, Quentin is open with his interest, his desire, his mouth generous and sweet as Eliot coaxes him down to kiss her neck.

Kels’ eyes are dark when Eliot meets them, soft pink lip caught between white teeth as she arches up into Quentin’s mouth on her skin. “He’s good at this,” Eliot murmurs, not so much a question as a statement, and Kels nods, laughing a little. The sound of it almost covers up Quentin’s moan, and that sure would be a shame. Fondly, Eliot runs his free hand up and down Quentin’s arched back, feeling his ribs expand and contract as he drags in breath. “I think he wants to suck on your tits— would that be okay?”

Kels hisses, her chest pressing up against Quentin’s body over her, and Eliot grins, even as she breathes out, “Sounds like fun.”

“You heard the lady,” Eliot quips, tugging a little on Quentin’s hair until he moans again, face dragging down across her collarbones as he moves down towards her breasts. “Come on, start gentle, focus on her nipples.” Quentin nods eagerly, and Eliot rides the wave of pride down to kiss at the back of Quentin’s neck, praise and reward combined, before he straightens up. Behind him, Eliot can hear Nicolo chuckling, and it’s hardly a surprise when a warm, strong hand smoothes it’s way up Eliot’s side.

“I quite enjoy this side of you,” Nicolo says, voice low and quiet, private and for Eliot alone. “He takes your guidance well.”

“He’s very teachable,” Eliot says fondly, petting at the small of Quentin’s back, before straining his neck around to look at Nicolo. “I don’t want you to feel left out, though.”

“Oh, I am very entertained, do not worry.” Nicolo smiles, a wide grin full of straight white teeth, one of his hands stroking off Eliot’s side and down his back. It calls up a shiver, and Eliot leans back into the touch, anticipation clenching low in his belly. “Though I wouldn’t be opposed to giving you some attention of your own. If you think you can keep your focus.”

“I’m always up for a challenge,” Eliot agrees mildly, straining around to look over his shoulder into Nicolo’s grinning face. “And I do remember liking your hands.”

Which is how Eliot finds himself bent at the waist, riding back in the thick stretch of Nicolo’s fingers while he talks Quentin through putting his mouth on the wet heat between Kels’ thighs. Eliot’s by no means an expert at eating pussy, but he’s seen Margo get enough head, and eaten enough ass himself, to translate the applicable skills. It really seems like a matter of attention and dedication, and Quentin has both in spades. He’s maybe a little too out of it to really key into her reactions, but he’s got Eliot for that, hasn’t he? So Eliot watches, and tells him when to double down, when she’s liking the suction of his mouth over her clit, or stroke of his tongue into her cunt. Eliot gets the sense that Kels could probably run this show herself, but she seems content to surrender pleasure to Eliot’s control. 

A particularly well aimed twist of fingers deep in Eliot’s body drags his focus back into himself, and suddenly he can’t help but be aware of— all of it, frankly. The sweat gathered at his temples and in the hair on his chest, the prickly feeling of his nipples in the cool air, the hungry throb of blood in his cock, the thick full feeling of fingers stuffed inside—

“ _Oh god_ ,” Eliot groans out, forehead dropping down onto Quentin’s shoulder as Nicolo’s fingers pass over his prostate again and again.

“You held on longer than I expected,” Nicolo laughs, free hand passing up and down Eliot’s back in a long stroking motion. To Kels, he says something in Italian, and she laughs, her hips pressing up against Quentin’s mouth.

“Almost there,” she gasps head tipping back, eyes closed and gasping. Down between her legs, Quentin groans, and Eliot tries to focus on her, ignoring the curling thrust of Nicolo’s fingers inside his body.

“Want his fingers?” Eliot asks, nuzzling his face against Quentin’s skin— _fuck_ he smells good. How does he smell so delicious, the scent of him crawling into Eliot’s brain, clean sweat and boy. “His hands are so nice—”

“Yes,” she gasps, immediately, high and breathy, back arching, breasts pushing up. 

“You heard the lady,” Eliot murmurs, voice soft and private and just for Quentin. “Give her your fingers. Start with one—”

“Two,” Kels cuts in. And, alright, fair enough.

“Two, then.”

He must do as he’s told because Kels moans, high and loud, but Eliot’s well and truly distracted by taking another finger himself. Nicolo’s is indeed staggeringly good with his hands, and the effects of the potion are helping Eliot relax into it, but it’s still been quite a while since he took anything as thick as these three fingers. 

“Oh— _fuck!”_ Kels shouts, and Eliot’s close enough to feel the tension in her body, the way her thighs clamp around Quentin’s face as she comes. 

“Good— ngh. Good job, that’s it,” Eliot coaxes, gasping himself as Nicolo’s free hand closes on his hips, hauling him backwards. Quentin’s answering moan is weak, but he’s leaning into towards Eliot, sweet needy thing, Eliot wants to _kiss him_ , wants to lick her taste off his face—

“I want to ride him,” Kels says, panting, pushing up on her elbows until she’s looking down at Quentin, who’s straining up to look at her. Eliot can’t see his face but he can imagine the hunger on it. “I want to ride you, while Nicolo fucks your friend. How does that sound to you?”

A full-body shudder ripples through Quentin’s body, and then he’s twisting around to look Eliot. “If— that’s. I mean— Do you want that?”

It’s so sweet, so— _god_ , Eliot wants to kiss him more than he wants anything else. “Yeah, just— Come over here, okay? Come over here so I can kiss you.”

To make it work they have to shift further into the center of the mattress, until Quentin can lay down flat on his back, head down towards Eliot. Quentin smiles up at him, reaching up to give Eliot’s cock a friendly hello stroke, and Eliot— draws in a deep breath, ignoring the pulse of pleasure low in his balls as he settles on his knees, petting at Quentin’s hair while Kels throws a leg over his hips. She reaches down for his dick, and Eliot watches, entranced, as she moves the thick pink head to rub against her cunt and then— on a gasp— sink inside. 

“Lovely,” Nicolo murmurs, and Eliot can’t help but agree, looking down at Quentin’s flushed pink face, his eyelashes a dark smudge against his cheekbones. Nicolo hauls Eliot backwards a bit on his hands and knees, and it leaves him kind of hovering over Quentin, flat on his back while Kels moves in his lap. If Eliot looks up, he can see the spread of her thighs across Quentin’s hips, the stretch of Quentin’s cock breaching her, the shine of her skin and the sway of her heavy breasts. If he looks down, he can see—

Quentin, looking up at him, gasping, straining up for an upside down kiss. And, _yes_ , god, yes that, Eliot drops down onto his elbows so he can kiss that sweet pink mouth. His mouth— god, his _mouth_ , it’s so warm, it’s still wet and slick from Kels, and Eliot finds himself chasing the taste of Quentin himself through her sharpness. Quentin for his part is so damn eager to be kissed, sucking a little on Eliot’s tongue when Eliot slides it inside. He’s still kissing at Quentin’s hot little mouth when Nicolo starts to slide inside, and Eliot kind of forgets how to breathe— god, it’s been so long, fuck, so long since Eliot had this. It’s exhilarating and terrifying, still, even after all these years, to feel his body yield like this. There’s always a second of disconcertion, where he’s not sure he’ll be able to take it, and then he _does_ , and it’s like _flying_ — or maybe that’s just the drugs.

A hand sliding into his hair grounds him. Quentin’s fingers sift into his curls, reaching up from where he’s upside down under Eliot to stroke his hair, bring him back into his body. “Hi,” Quentin breathes, eyes blown black. “How’s it feel?”

“ _Good_ ,” Eliot gets out on a moan, and he can hear Nicolo chuckle behind him at that. He rewards Eliot with a little snap of his hips, not quite drawing his cock out enough to call it a thrust, but still enough to punch the breath out of Eliot’s lungs. He feels like his skin is on fire, Quentin’s hands in his hair feel directly wired to his dick. 

“Tell me,” Quentin murmurs, tugging— Eliot’s slack mouth down to his for a kiss, licking into Eliot’s mouth and he has a moment of hunger, of wanting _Quentin’s_ cock in his mouth, perfect mouthful, while Nicolo fucks his ass. It’s a thrill, and it’s— not what he likes, usually, but—

What’s Encanto for, besides being what you don’t usually get to be?

“It’s— He’s getting me deep,” Eliot groans, breathing into Quentin’s mouth as Kels really starts to move on him, the rolling motion of her hips traded out for bouncing. Quentin moans, his eyes fluttering shut, hand going tight in Eliot’s curls, and he’s so beautiful, sweet and pink and needy, Eliot just— Brushes his fingertips against the corner of Quentin’s jaw, reverent. Heart climbing into his throat, when Quentin’s face turns towards Eliot’s hand, nose brushing against Eliot’s wrist. “How’s she feel?”

“Uh—” Quentin gasps, and Eliot gets to watch the muscles in his belly tighten as he fights the urge to thrust. His cheeks are tinged with a pretty red flush, and Eliot can’t tell if it’s embarrassment or exertion. “All hot and wet, and— she’s squeezing— it’s— fuck, it’s. I don’t even know, feels so good.”

“Mmm, you’re good to squeeze on,” Kels murmurs, working her hips in a complicated little figure-eight motion that has Quentin swearing, jaw clenching tight, or maybe that’s the praise.

Behind him, Nicolo begins to draw out, and Eliot sucks in a ragged breath, bracing himself for the first sharp hard thrust so he doesn’t go knocking his nose into Quentin’s teeth. It comes, hard and fast, and Eliot’s mouth falls open, eyes slipping closed as he bares back into it, body settling into the rhythm of getting well and truly fucked. 

“El,” Quentin gasps, and Eliot blinks eyes open, looking down at Quentin through the sweat-damp curls hanging in front of his face. “You look— god, you look so good.”

“Yeah?” Eliot asks, grabbing for the roll he was supposed to be playing with both hands, because he feels fucking _cracked open_ , and Quentin’s looking right into the fissure. “You like me getting fucked, huh?”

“You look like you feel so good,” Quentin responds, so damn earnest. There’s sweat starting to sting Eliot’s eyes, and he can’t— He closes them, leaning down to pants into Quentin’s mouth as Nicolo really leans into it, his cock dragging inside Eliot, a long constant pressure against his prostate, lighting up sparks behind his eyes. 

It’s all he can do to hang on, brace himself and work back, any other thought of trying to make it _good_ like Kels is doing, fancy hip work or squeezing, just blasted right out of Eliot’s mind. Pleasure curls like a coil in his groin, achy, needy heat low in his balls, and Eliot knows that if he could just get a hand on himself he’d be off like a shot, but he _can’t_ , not when he needs both hands bracing to make sure he doesn’t get fucked face-first into Quentin. One of Quentin’s hands is still tangled up in Eliot’s hair, nails scratching against his scalp, and it draws shivery jolts of pleasure down like liquid fire, connected right to the head of his cock. Eliot loses the thread of it a bit after that, struggling to focus on anything besides Nicolo’s hands on his hips, the drag of the cock inside him, Quentin’s breath on his face and hands in his hair. He thinks maybe Kels comes again, the sound of her voice peaking through his consciousness, and then Quentin’s arching and—

“Good,” Eliot slurs out, trying to offer praise and assurance as Quentin’s face crumples in pleasure, hand going tight in Eliot’s hair. “Q—”

“Yeah, ‘m here,” Quentin murmurs, then he’s— nuzzling his face in against Eliot’s, and— kissing at Eliot’s mouth, and— pushing on Eliot’s shoulder. “Hey, get up on your hands so I can—”

Eliot does his best to comply, shoulders protesting as he pulls up off his elbows until he’s braced on his palms, then Quentin’s worming in under the cavern of his body so he can— _oh fuck_ — lick his heavenly soft sweet tongue out, kittenish, against the head of Eliot’s cock. Eliot fucking— _shouts_ , clenching down hard on the cock in his ass as Quentin’s sweet mouth envelops him, light suction for a handful of seconds before his orgasm crashes over him like tidal wave, knocking him forward until he collapses face first down onto Quentin’s hip, nose inches away from his spent cock. Only Nicolo’s strong hands are left holding him up, hauling Eliot’s hips back onto his dick for a handful more thrusts until he’s coming too, spending deep in Eliot’s ass. 

He’s got just enough wherewithal left to roll off to the side, curling like a comma around Quentin. Exhaustion is settling into Eliot's body and mind, but he hears the sound of someone muttering a cleaning spell, feeling the tingle of it along his skin. Time seems to jump through a series of blinks, and by the time Eliot’s prying his eyelids open again, all the other bodies in the bed are resting and settled. Quentin’s got his head propped up on Eliot’s thigh, still more or less curled in a loose sixty-nine, small smile on his face as he watches Eliot blink himself back to consciousness. 

“Hi,” Quentin breathes out, smile widening as Eliot reaches for him, fingers sliding into Quentin’s hair, brushing it back out of his face with a tender caress.

“Hey,” Eliot says, voice soft, sliding his knuckles gently against Quentin’s cheek, wholly unable to stop touching him. Quentin gives him a slow blink in response, humming a little, the smallest of curls at the corner of his soft pink mouth. Helpless, Eliot slides his fingers down until he can brush his thumb against the pretty bow of Quentin’s lower lip. “Wanna go sleep on the beach?”

“Mmm, that sounds nice,” Quentin murmurs, flitting his tongue out to lick softly at the tip of Eliot’s thumb.

They extricate themselves with care, pulling away from the other bodies in the bed on shaky legs. The high from the potion is still pinging through Eliot’s nerves, but it will fade soon, leaving him touch-hungry, with an ache that can only be settled by skin against his.

“Have you ever had a potion hang-over before?” Eliot asks, quiet, as they slip out of the room out into the entryway of the tent. He’s not surprised when Quentin shakes his head. “You’ll probably feel a little jittery. Skin-contact is the best thing for it. If you sleep close to me, you might even dodge the worst of it.”

“Oh no,” Quentin teases, light sarcasm coating his voice as he slips an arm around Eliot’s waist, head falling down onto his shoulder. “How am I going to survive?”

“Tragic, really,” Eliot argrees, slipping his arm around Quentin’s shoulders to guide him out onto the beach. 

All evidence of the dance floor from earlier has disappeared, lights and music and all, but the beach is well enough lit by the cloudless night to see other bodies scattered around the beach, sleeping in the sand. Moonlight and starlight light their path as Eliot picks his way over towards an empty patch of sand not too far from the high tie point. Enchantment hangs heavy on the sand, keeping everything warm and soft and comfortably itch-free, and Eliot sinks down onto his side, Quentin following suit. Half expecting Quentin to settle down to spoon, Eliot’s surprised when instead Quentin curls up facing him, working one of his legs in between Eliot’s thighs until they’re all tangled together. 

“That was amazing,” Quentin says, soft and sleepy into the inches between their faces, his warm brown eyes catching and holding Eliot’s gaze. “Thank you.”

“I didn’t—” Eliot starts, then stops, unsure exactly what he’s being thanked for, or why he’s denying it. 

Quentin just breathes out, nuzzling his face down against Eliot’s neck. “You just make me feel totally safe.” His fingers are tracing aimless patterns on Eliot’s ribs, and that’s why Eliot shivers, not— anything to do with the words. “Crazy, right?”

Honestly, yes. But— “I’m glad,” Eliot breathes out, tipping his nose down against the top of Quentin’s head, breathing in the smell of him. Already, he can feel the looseness of sleep taking Quentin’s body, and Eliot is shocked to find himself following. Eyes drifting closed, he lets himself fall into sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> I can be found as portraitofemmy on most places, but check me out on [twitter](https://twitter.com/portraitofemmy) and [tumblr](https://portraitofemmy.tumblr.com/). Thanks for reading!


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